:  THIS  Boof 
BELONGS  To 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


"I  shall  get  married  when  and  where  I  please, — and  to 
whom  I  please,  Mr.  Gwynne." 

Frontispiece  page  139 


VIOLA  GWYN 


BY 

GEORGE  BARR  McCUTCHEON 

AUTHOR  OF 
"SHERRY,"  "WEST  WIND  DRIFT,"  "QUILL'S  WINDOW,"  ETC. 


FRONTISPIECE  BY 

E.  C.  CASWELL 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1922 


COPYBIGHT,  1922, 

BY  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY,  INC. 


PRINTED   IN   THE    U.   S.  A.  BY 

gfre  iSuinn  &  ffotitn  Company 

BOOK      MANUFACTURERS 
RAHWAY  NEW    JERSEY 


CONTENTS 


PACK 

PROLOGUE — THE  BEGINNING      ...  1 

CHAPTER 

I  SHELTER  FOR  THE  NIGHT           .        .          .  15 

II  THE  STRANGE  YOUNG  WOMAN  ...  35 

III  SOMETHING   ABOUT    CLOTHES,   AND   MEN, 

AND  CATS .51 

IV  VIOLA  GWYN 67 

V  REFLECTIONS  AND  AN  ENCOUNTER     .         .  81 

VI  BARRY  LAPELLE .94 

VII  THE  END  OF  THE  LONG  ROAD   .        .          .  105 

VIII  RACHEL  CARTER 118 

IX  BROTHER  AND  SISTER  .....  135 

X  MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER     .        .        .          .147 

XI  A  ROADSIDE  MEETING  ....          .  158 

XII  ISAAC  STAIN  APPEARS  BY  NIGHT       .         .  171 

XIII  THE  GRACIOUS  ENEMY         .        .        .          .181' 

XIV  A  MAN  FROM  DOWN  THE  RIVER        .          .  197 

XV  THE  LANDING  OF  THE  "PAUL  REVERE"      .  212 

XVI  CONCERNING  TEMPESTS  AND  INDIANS           .  227 

XVII  REVELATIONS 236 

XVIII  RACHEL  DELIVERS  A  MESSAGE    .        .          .  246 

XIX  LAPELLE  SHOWS  His  TEETH       .        .          .  262 

XX  THE  BLOW 275 

XXI  THE  AFFAIR  AT  HAWK'S  CABIN          .          .  282 

XXII  THE  PRISONERS 297 

XXIII  CHALLENGE  AND  RETORT     ....  313 

XXIV  IN  AN  UPSTAIRS  ROOM         ....  326 

XXV  MINDA  CARTER 333 

XXVI  THE  FLIGHT  OF  MARTIN  HAWK         .          .  338 

XXVII  THE  TRIAL  OF  MOLL  HAWK       .        .          .  346 

XXVIII  THE  TRYSTING  PLACE  OF  THOUGHTS          .  354 

XXIX  THE  ENDING 369 


1522533 


VIOLA  GWYN 


PROLOGUE 

THE    BEGINNING 

KENNETH  GWYNNE  was  five  years  old  when 
his  father  ran  away  with  Rachel  Carter,  a 
widow.  This  was  in  the  spring  of  1812,  and 
in  the  fall  his  mother  died.  His  grandparents  brought 
him  up  to  hate  Rachel  Carter,  an  evil  woman. 

She  was  his  mother's  friend  and  she  had  slain  her 
with  the  viper's  tooth.  From  the  day  that  his  ques 
tioning  intelligence  seized  upon  the  truth  that  had 
been  so  carefully  withheld  from  him  by  his  broken 
hearted  mother  and  those  who  spoke  behind  the  hand 
when  he  was  near, — from  that  day  he  hated  Rachel 
Carter  with  all  his  hot  and  outraged  heart.  He  came 
to  think  of  her  as  the  embodiment  of  all  that  was  evil, 
— for  those  were  the  days  when  there  was  no  middle- 
ground  for  sin  and  women  were  either  white  or  scarlet. 

He  rejoiced  in  the  belief  that  in  good  time  Rachel 
Carter  would  come  to  roast  in  the  everlasting  fires  of 
hell,  grovelling  and  wailing  at  the  feet  of  Satan,  the 
while  his  lovely  mother  looked  down  upon  her  in  pity, 
— even  then  he  wondered  if  such  a  thing  were  possible, 
— from  her  seat  beside  God  in  His  Heaven.  He  had 
no  doubts  about  this.  Hell  and  heaven  were  real  to 
him,  and  all  sinners  went  below.  On  the  other  hand, 

1 


2  VIOLA   GWYN 

his  father  would  be  permitted  to  repent  and  would 
instantly  go  to  heaven.  It  was  inconceivable  that  his 
big,  strong,  well-beloved  father  should  go  to  the  bad 
place.  But  Mrs.  Carter  would!  Nothing  could  save 
her!  God  would  not  pay  any  attention  to  her  if  she 
tried  to  repent;  He  would  know  it  was  only  "make- 
believe"  if  she  got  down  on  her  knees  and  prayed  for 
forgiveness.  He  was  convinced  that  Rachel  Carter 
could  not  fool  God.  Besides,  would  not  his  mother  be 
there  to  remind  Him  in  case  He  could  not  exactly  re 
member  what  Rachel  Carter  had  done?  And  were  there 
not  dozens  of  good,  honest  people  in  the  village  who 
would  probably  be  in  Heaven  by  that  time  and  ready 
to  stand  before  the  throne  and  bear  witness  that  she 
was  a  bad  woman? 

No,  Rachel  Carter  could  never  get  into  Heaven.  He 
was  glad.  No  matter  if  the  Scriptures  did  say  all  that 
about  the  sinner  who  repents,  he  did  not  believe  that 
God  would  let  her  in.  He  supported  this  belief  by  the 
profoundly  childish  contention  that  if  God  let  every 
body  in,  then  there  would  be  no  use  having  a  hell  at 
all.  What  was  the  use  of  being  good  all  your  life  if 
the  bad  people  could  get  into  Heaven  at  the  last  minute 
by  telling  God  they  were  sorry  and  never  would  do 
anything  bad  again  as  long  as  they  lived?  And  was 
not  God  the  wisest  Being  in  all  the  world?  He  knew 
everything!  He  knew  all  about  Rachel  Carter.  She 
would  go  to  the  bad  place  and  stay  there  forever,  even 
after  the  "resurrection"  and  the  end  of  the  world  by 
fire  in  1883,  a  calamity  to  which  he  looked  forward 
with  grave  concern  and  no  little  trepidation  at  the 
thoughtful  age  of  six. 

At  first  they  told  him  his  father  had  gone  off  as  a 
soldier  to  fight  against  the  Indians  and  the  British. 


PROLOGUE  3 

He  knew  that  a  war  was  going  on.  Men  with  guns 
were  drilling  in  the  pasture  up  beyond  his  grand 
father's  house,  and  there  was  talk  of  Indian  "raas- 
sacrees,"  and  Simon  Girty's  warriors,  and  British  red 
coats,  and  the  awful  things  that  happened  to  little 
boys  who  disobeyed  their  elders  and  went  swimming, 
or  berrying,  or  told  even  the  teeniest  kind  of  fibs.  He 
overheard  his  grandfather  and  the  neighbours  discus 
sing  a  battle  on  Lake  Erie,  and  rejoiced  with  them 
over  the  report  of  a  great  victory  for  "our  side." 
Vaguely  he  had  grasped  the  news  of  a  horrible  battle 
on  the  Tippecanoe  River,  far  away  in  the  wilderness 
to  the  north  and  west,  in  which  millions  of  Indians 
were  slain,  and  he  wondered  how  many  of  them  his 
father  had  killed  with  his  rifle, — a  weapon  so  big  and 
long  that  he  came  less  than  half  way  up  the  barrel 
when  he  stood  beside  it. 

His  father  was  a  great  shot.  Everybody  said  so. 
He  could  kill  wild  turkeys  a  million  miles  away  as  easy 
as  rolling  off  a  log,  and  deer,  and  catamounts,  and 
squirrels,  and  herons,  and  everything.  So  his  father 
must  have  killed  heaps  of  Indians  and  red-coats  and 
renegades. 

He  put  this  daily  question  to  his  mother:  "How 
many  do  you  s'pose  Pa  has  killed  by  this  time,  Ma?" 

And  then,  in  the  fall,  his  mother  went  away  and  left 
him.  They  did  not  tell  him  she  had  gone  to  the  war. 
He  would  not  have  believed  them  if  they  had,  for  she 
was  too  sick  to  go.  She  had  been  in  bed  for  a  long, 
long  time;  the  doctor  came  to  see  her  every  day,  and 
finally  the  preacher.  He  hated  both  of  them,  espe 
cially  the  latter,  who  prayed  so  loudly  and  so  vehe 
mently  that  his  mother  must  have  been  terribly  dis 
turbed.  Why  should  every  one  caution  him  to  be  quiet 


4  VIOLA    GWYN 

and  not  make  a  noise  because  it  disturbed  mother,  and 
yet  say  nothing  when  that  old  preacher  went  right  into 
her  room  and  yelled  same  as  he  always  did  in  church? 
He  was  very  bitter  about  it,  and  longed  for  his  father 
to  come  home  with  his  rifle  and  shoot  everybody,  in 
cluding  his  grandfather  who  had  "switched"  him  se 
verely  and  unjustly  because  he  threw  stones  at  Parson 
Hook's  saddle  horse  while  the  good  man  was  offering 
up  petitions  from  the  sick  room. 

He  went  to  the  "burying,"  and  was  more  impressed 
by  the  fact  that  nearly  all  of  the  men  who  rode  or 
drove  to  the  graveyard  down  in  the  "hollow"  carried 
rifles  and  pistols  than  he  was  by  the  strange  solemnity 
of  the  occasion,  for,  while  he  realized  in  a  vague,  mis 
trustful  way  that  his  mother  was  to  be  put  under  the 
ground,  his  trust  clung  resolutely  to  God's  promise, 
accepted  in  its  most  literal  sense,  that  the  dead  shall 
rise  again  and  that  "ye  shall  be  born  again."  That 
was  what  the  preacher  said, — and  he  had  cried  a 
little  when  the  streaming-eyed  clergyman  took  him 
on  his  knee  and  whispered  that  all  was  well  with  his 
dear  mother  and  that  he  would  meet  her  one  day  in 
that  beautiful  land  beyond  the  River. 

He  was  very  lonely  after  that.  His  "granny" 
tucked  him  in  his  big  feather  bed  every  night,  and 
listened  to  his  little  prayer,  but  she  was  not  the  same 
as  mother.  She  did  not  kiss  him  in  the  same  way,  nor 
did  her  hand  feel  like  mother's  when  she  smoothed  his 
rumpled  hair  or  buttoned  his  flannel  nightgown  about 
his  neck  or  closed  his  eyes  playfully  with  her  fingers 
before  she  went  away  with  the  candle.  Yet  he  adored 
her.  She  was  sweet  and  gentle,  she  told  such  wonder 
ful  fairy  tales  to  him,  and  she  always  smiled  at  him. 
He  wondered  a  great  deal.  Why  was  it  that  she  did 


PROLOGUE  5 

not  feel  the  same  as  mother?     He  was  deeply  puzzled. 
Was  it  because  her  hair  was  grey? 

His  grandfather  lived  in  the  biggest  house  in  town. 
It  had  an  "upstairs," — a  real  "upstairs," — not  just  an 
attic.  And  his  grandfather  was  a  very  important  per 
son.  Everybody  called  him  "Squire";  sometimes  they 
said  "your  honour";  most  people  touched  their  hats  to 
him.  When  his  father  went  off  to  the  war,  he  and  his 
mother  came  to  live  at  "grandpa's  house."  The  cabin 
in  which  he  was  born  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  street, 
fully  half-a-mile  away,  out  beyond  the  grist  mill.  It 
had  but  three  rooms  and  no  "upstairs"  at  all  except 
the  place  under  the  roof  where  they  kept  the  dried 
apples,  and  the  walnuts  and  hickory  nuts,  some  old 
saddle-bags  and  boxes,  and  his  discarded  cradle.  You 
had  to  climb  up  a  ladder  and  through  a  square  hole 
in  the  ceiling  to  get  into  this  place,  and  you  would 
have  to  be  very  careful  not  to  stand  up  straight  or 
you  would  bump  your  head, — unless  you  were  exactly 
in  the  middle,  where  the  ridge-pole  was. 

He  remembered  that  it  was  a  very  long  walk  to 
"grandpa's  house" ;  he  used  to  get  very  tired  and  his 
father  would  lift  him  up  and  place  him  on  his  shoulder; 
from  this  lofty,  even  perilous,  height  he  could  look 
down  upon  the  top  of  his  mother's  bonnet, — a  most 
astonishing  view  and  one  that  filled  him  with  glee. 

His  father  was  the  biggest  man  in  all  the  world, 
there  could  be  no  doubt  about  that.  Why,  he  was 
bigger  even  than  grandpa,  or  Doctor  Flint,  or  the 
parson,  or  Mr.  Carter,  who  lived  in  the  cabin  next 
door  and  was  Minda's  father.  For  the  matter  of  that, 
he  was,  himself,  a  great  deal  bigger  than  Minda,  who 
was  only  two  years  old  and  could  not  say  anywhere 
near  as  many  words  as  he  could  say — and  did  not  know 


6  VIOLA    GWYN 

her  A  B  C's,  or  the  Golden  Rule,  or  who  George  Wash 
ington  was. 

And  his  father  was  ever  so  much  taller  than  his 
mother.  He  was  tall  enough  to  be  her  father  or  her 
grandfather;  why,  she  did  not  come  up  to  his  shoulder 
when  she  walked  beside  him.  He  was  a  million  times 
bigger  than  she  was.  He  was  bigger  than  anybody 
else  in  all  the  world. 

The  little  border  town  in  Kentucky,  despite  its  popu 
lation  of  less  than  a  thousand,  was  the  biggest  city  in 
the  world.  There  was  no  doubt  about  that  either  in 
Kenneth's  loyal  little  mind.  It  was  bigger  than  Phila 
delphia — (he  called  it  Fil-Ztf/-ily ) , — where  his  mother 
used  to  live  when  she  was  a  little  girl,  or  Massa- 
shooshoo,  where  Minda's  father  and  mother  corned 
from. 

He  was  secretly  distressed  by  the  superior  physical 
proportions  of  his  "Auntie"  Rachel.  There  was  no 
denying  the  fact  that  she  was  a  great  deal  taller  than 
his  mother.  He  had  an  abiding  faith,  however,  that 
some  day  his  mother  would  grow  up  and  be  lots  taller 
than  Minda's  mother.  He  challenged  his  toddling 
playmate  to  deny  that  his  mother  would  be  as  big 
as  hers  some  day,  a  lofty  taunt  that  left  Minda  quite 
unmoved. 

Nevertheless,  he  was  very  fond  of  "Auntie"  Rachel. 
She  was  good  to  him.  She  gave  him  cakes  and  crullers 
and  spread  maple  sugar  on  many  a  surreptitious  piece 
of  bread  and  butter,  and  she  had  a  jolly  way  of 
laughing,  and  she  never  told  him  to  wash  his  hands  or 
face,  no  matter  how  dirty  they  were.  In  that  one 
respect,  at  least,  she  was  much  nicer  than  his  mother. 
He  liked  Mr.  Carter,  too.  In  fact,  he  liked  everybody 
except  old  Boose,  the  tin  pedlar,  who  took  little  boys 


PROLOGUE  7 

out  into  the  woods  and  left  them  for  the  wolves  to  eat 
if  they  were  not  very,  very  good. 

He  was  four  when  they  brought  Mr.  Carter  home 
in  a  wagon  one  day.  Some  men  carried  him  into  the 
house,  and  Aunt  Rachel  cried,  and  his  mother  went 
over  and  stayed  a  long,  long  time  with  her,  and  his 
father  got  on  his  horse  and  rode  off  as  fast  as  he  could 
go  for  Doctor  Flint,  and  he  was  not  allowed  to  go  out 
side  the  house  all  day, — or  old  Boose  would  get  him. 

Then,  one  day,  he  saw  "Auntie"  Rachel  all  dressed 
in  black,  and  he  was  frightened.  He  ran  away  crying. 
She  looked  so  tall  and  scary, — like  the  witches  Biddy 
Shay  whispered  about  when  his  grandma  was  not 
around, — the  witches  and  hags  that  flew  up  to  the  sky 
on  broomsticks  and  never  came  out  except  at  night. 

His  father  did  the  "chores"  for  "'Auntie"  Rachel 
for  a  long  time,  because  Mr.  Carter  was  not  there  to 
attend  to  them. 

There  came  a  day  when  the  buds  were  fresh  on  the 
twigs,  and  the  grass  was  very  green,  and  the  birds 
that  had  been  gone  for  a  long  time  were  singing  again 
in  the  trees,  and  it  was  not  raining.  So  he  went  down 
the  road  to  play  in  Minda's  yard.  He  called  to  her, 
but  she  did  not  appear.  No  one  appeared.  The  house 
was  silent.  "Auntie"  Rachel  was  not  there.  Even  the 
dogs  were  gone,  and  Mr.  Carter's  horses  and  his 
wagon.  He  could  not  understand.  Only  yesterday 
he  had  played  in  the  barn  with  Minda. 

Then  his  grandma  came  hurrying  through  the  trees 
from  his  own  home,  where  she  had  been  with  grandpa 
and  Uncle  Fred  and  Uncle  Dan  since  breakfast  time. 
She  took  him  up  in  her  arms  and  told  him  that  Minda 
was  gone.  He  had  never  seen  his  grandma  look  so  stern 
and  angry.  Biddy  Shay  had  been  there  all  morning 


8  VIOLA    GWYN 

too,  and  several  of  the  neighbours.  He  wondered  if  it 
could  be  the  Sabbath,  and  yet  that  did  not  seem  pos 
sible,  because  it  was  only  two  days  since  he  went  to 
Sunday  school,  and  yesterday  his  mother  had  done  the 
washing.  She  always  washed  on  Monday  and  ironed 
on  Tuesday.  This  must  be  Tuesday,  but  maybe  he 
was  wrong  about  that.  She  was  not  ironing,  so  it  could 
not  be  Tuesday.  He  was  very  much  bewildered. 

His  mother  was  in  the  bedroom  with  grandpa  and 
Aunt  Hettie,  and  he  was  not  allowed  to  go  in  to  see 
her.  Uncle  Fred  and  Uncle  Dan  were  very  solemn  and 
scowling  so  terribly  that  he  was  afraid  to  go  near 
them. 

He  remembered  that  his  mother  had  cried  while  she 
was  cooking  breakfast,  and  sat  down  a  great  many 
times  to  rest  her  head  on  her  arms.  She  had  cried  a 
good  deal  lately,  because  of  the  headache,  she  always 
said.  And  right  after  breakfast  she  had  put  on  her 
bonnet  and  shawl,  telling  him  to  stay  in  the  house  till 
she  came  back  from  grandpa's.  Then  she  had  gone 
away,  leaving  him  all  alone  until  Biddy  Shay  came,  all 
out  of  breath,  and  began  to  clear  the  table  and  wash 
the  dishes,  all  the  while  talking  to  herself  in  a  way 
that  he  was  sure  God  would  not  like,  and  probably 
would  send  her  to  the  bad  place  for  it  when  she 
died. 

After  a  while  all  of  the  men  went  out  to  the  barn- 
lot,  where  their  horses  were  tethered.  Uncle  Fred  and 
Uncle  Dan  had  their  rifles.  He  stood  at  the  kitchen 
window  and  watched  them  with  wide,  excited  eyes. 
Were  they  going  off  to  kill  Indians,  or  bears,  or  catty- 
munks?  They  all  talked  at  once,  especially  his  uncles, 
— and  they  swore,  too.  Then  his  grandpa  stood  in 
front  of  them  and  spoke  very  loudly,  pointing  his 


PROLOGUE  9 

finger  at  them.  He  heard  him  say,  over  and  over 
again : 

"Let  them  go,  I  say !    I  tell  you,  let  them  go !" 

He  wondered  why  his  father  was  not  there,  if  there 
was  any  fighting  to  be  done.  His  father  was  a  great 
fighter.  He  was  the  bestest  shot  in  all  the  world.  He 
could  kill  an  Injin  a  million  miles  away,  or  a  squirrel, 
or  a  groundhog.  So  he  asked  Biddy  Shay. 

"Ast  me  no  questions  and  I'll  tell  ye  no  lies,"  was 
all  the  answer  he  got  from  Biddy. 

The  next  day  he  went  up  to  grandpa's  with  his 
mother  to  stay,  and  Uncle  Fred  told  him  that  his  pa 
had  gone  off  to  the  war.  He  believed  this,  for  were 
not  the  rifle,  the  powder  horn  and  the  shot  flask 
missing  from  the  pegs  over  the  fireplace,  and  was  not 
Bob,  the  very  fastest  horse  in  all  the  world,  gone  from 
the  barn?  He  was  vastly  thrilled.  His  father  would 
shoot  millions  and  millions  of  In j ins,  and  they  would 
have  a  house  full  of  scalps  and  tommyhawks  and  bows 
and  arrers. 

But  he  was  troubled  about  Minda.  Uncle  Fred, 
driven  to  corner  by  persistent  inquiry,  finally  confessed 
that  Minda  also  had  gone  to  the  war,  and  at  last  re 
port  had  killed  several  extremely  ferocious  redskins. 
Despite  this  very  notable  achievement,  Kenneth  was 
troubled.  In  the  first  place,  Minda  was  a  baby,  and 
always  screamed  when  she  heard  a  gun  go  off;  in  the 
second  place,  she  always  fell  down  when  she  tried  to 
run  and  squalled  like  everything  if  he  did  not  wait  for 
her;  in  the  third  place,  In  j  ins  always  beat  little  girls' 
heads  off  against  a  tree  if  they  caught  'em. 

Moreover,  Uncle  Dan,  upon  being  consulted,  de 
clared  that  a  good-sized  Injin  could  swaller  Minda  in 
one  gulp  if  *he  happened  to  be  'specially  hungry, 


10  VIOLA    GWYN 

in  a  hurry.  Uncle  Dan  also  appeared  to  be  very  much 
surprised  when  he  heard  that  she  had  gone  off  to  the 
war.  He  said  that  Uncle  Fred  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  himself;  and  the  next  time  he  asked  Uncle  Fred 
about  Minda  he  was  considerably  relieved  to  hear  that 
his  little  playmate  had  given  up  fighting  altogether 
and  was  living  quite  peaceably  in  a  house  made  of  a 
pumpkin  over  yonder  where  the  sun  went  down  at 
night. 

It  was  not  until  sometime  after  his  mother  went 
away, — after  the  long-to-be-remembered  "fooneral," 
with  its  hymns,  and  weeping,  and  praying, — that  he 
heard  the  grown-ups  talking  about  the  war  being  over. 
The  redcoats  were  thrashed  and  there  was  much  boast 
ing  and  bragging  among  the  men  of  the  settlement. 
Strange  men  appeared  on  the  street,  and  other  men 
slapped  their  backs  and  shook  hands  with  them  and 
shouted  loudly  and  happily  at  them.  In  time,  he  came 
to  understand  that  these  were  the  citizens  who  had 
gone  off  to  fight  in  the  war  and  were  now  home  again, 
all  safe  and  sound.  He  began  to  watch  for  his  father. 
He  would  know  him  a  million  miles  off,  he  was  so  big, 
and  he  had  the  biggest  rifle  in  the  world. 

"Do  you  s'pose  Pa  will  know  how  to  find  me, 
grandma?"  he  would  inquire.  "'Cause,  you  see,  I 
don't  live  where  I  used  to." 

And  his  grandmother,  beset  with  this  and  similar 
questions  from  one  day's  end  to  the  other,  would  be 
come  very  busy  over  what  she  was  doing  at  the  time 
and  tell  him  not  to  pester  her.  He  did  not  like  to  ask 
his  grandfather.  He  was  so  stern, — even  when  he  was 
sitting  all  alone  on  the  porch  and  was  not  busy  at  all. 

Then  one  day  he  saw  his  grandparents  talking  to 
gether  on  the  porch.  Aunt  Hettie  was  with  them,  but 


PROLOGUE  11 

she  was  not  talking.  She  was  just  looking  at  him  as 
he  played  down  by  the  watering  trough.  He  distinctly 
heard  his  grandma  say: 

"I  think  he  ought  to  be  told,  Richard.  It's  a  sin  to 
let  him  go  on  thinking — "  The  rest  of  the  sentence 
was  lost  to  him  when  she  suddenly  lowered  her  voice. 
They  were  all  looking  at  him. 

Presently  his  grandfather  called  to  him,  and  beck 
oned  with  his  finger.  He  marched  up  to  the  porch 
with  his  little  bow  and  arrow.  Grandma  turned  to  go 
into  the  house,  and  Aunt  Hettie  hurried  away. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  Granny,"  he  sang  out.  "I  won't 
shoot  you.  'Sides,  I've  only  got  one  arrer,  Aunt 
Hettie." 

Has  grandfather  took  him  on  his  knee,  and  then  and 
there  told  him  the  truth  about  his  father.  He  spoke 
very  slowly  and  did  not  say  any  of  those  great  big 
words  that  he  always  used  when  he  was  with  grown 
up  people,  or  even  with  the  darkies. 

"Now,  pay  strict  attention,  Kenneth.  You  must 
understand  everything  I  say  to  you.  Do  you  hear? 
Your  father  is  never  coming  home.  We  told  you  he 
had  gone  to  the  war.  We  thought  it  was  best  to  let 
you  think  so.  It  is  time  for  you  to  know  the  truth. 
You  are  always  asking  questions  about  him.  After 
this,  when  you  want  to  know  about  your  father,  you 
must  come  to  me.  I  will  tell  you.  Do  not  bother  your 
grandma.  You  make  her  unhappy  when  you  ask  ques 
tions.  You  see,  your  Ma  was  once  her  little  girl  and 
mine.  She  used  to  be  as  little  as  you  are.  Your  Pa 
was  her  husband.  You  know  what  a  husband  is,  don't 
you?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Kenneth,  wide-eyed.  "It's  a  boy's 
father." 


12  VIOLA   GWYN 

"You  are  nearly  six  years  old.  Quite  a  man,  my 
lad."  He  paused  to  look  searchingly  into  the  child's 
face,  his  bushy  eyebrows  meeting  in  a  frown. 

"The  devil  of  it  is,"  he  burst  out,  "you  are  the 
living  image  of  your  father.  You  are  going  to  grow 
up  to  look  like  him."  He  groaned  audibly,  spat 
viciously  over  his  shoulder,  and  went  on  in  a  strange, 
hard  voice.  "Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  steal?  It 
means  taking  something  that  belongs  to  somebody 
else." 

"Yes,  sir.  'Thou  shalt  not  steal.'  It's  in  the 
Bible." 

"Well,  you  know  that  Indians  and  gipsies  steal  little 
boys,  don't  you?  It  is  the  very  worst  kind  of  steal 
ing,  because  it  breaks  the  boy's  mother's  heart.  It 
sometimes  kills  them.  Now,  suppose  that  somebody 
stole  a  husband.  A  husband  is  a  boy's  father,  as  you 
say.  Your  father  was  a  husband.  He  was  your  dear 
mother's  husband.  You  loved  your  mother  very,  very 
much,  didn't  you?  Don't  cry,  lad, — there,  there,  nowJ 
Be  a  little  man.  Now,  listen.  Somebody  stole  your 
mother's  husband.  She  loved  him  better  than  any 
thing  in  the  world.  She  loved  him,  I  guess,  even  better 
than  she  loved  you,  Kenneth.  She  just  couldn't  live 
without  him.  Do  you  see?  That  is  why  she  died  and 
went  away.  She  is  in  Heaven  now.  Now,  let  me  hear 
you  say  this  after  me:  My  mother  died  because  some 
body  stole  her  husband  away  from  her." 

"  'My  mother  died  because  somebody  stoled  her  hus 
band  away  from  her,'  "  repeated  the  boy,  slowly. 

"You  will  never  forget  that,  will  you?" 

"No,— sir." 

"Say  this :  My  mother's  heart  was  broken  and  so  she 
died." 


PROLOGUE  13 

*'  'My  mother's  heart  was  broken  and  she — and  so 
she  died.'  " 

"You  will  never  forget  that  either,  will  you,  Ken 
neth?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Now,  I  am  going  to  tell  you  who  stole  your 
mother's  husband  away  from  her.  You  know  who  your 
mother's  husband  was,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,  sir.     My  Pa." 

"One  night, — the  night  before  you  came  up  here  to 
live, — your  Auntie  Rachel, — that  is  what  you  called 
her,  isn't  it?  Well,  she  was  not  your  real  aunt.  She 
was  your  neighbour, — just  as  Mr.  Collins  over  there 
is  my  neighbour, — and  she  was  your  mother's  friend. 
Well,  that  night  she  stole  your  Pa  from  your  Ma,  and 
took  him  away  with  her, — far,  far  away,  and  she  never 
let  him  come  back  again.  She  took  him  away  in  the 
night,  away  from  your  mother  and  you  forever  and 
forever.  She — " 

"But  Pa  was  bigger'n  she  was,"  interrupted  Kenneth, 
frowning.  "Why  didn't  he  kill  her  and  get  away?" 

The  old  Squire  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "It  is  not 
fair  for  me  to  put  all  the  blame  on  Rachel  Carter. 
Your  father  was  willing  to  go.  He  did  not  kill  Rachel 
Carter.  Together  he  and  Rachel  Carter  killed  your 
mother.  But  Rachel  Carter  was  more  guilty  than  he 
was.  She  was  a  woman  and  she  stole  what  belonged 
in  the  sight  of  God  to  another  woman.  She  was  a  bad 
woman.  If  she  had  been  a  good  woman  she  would  not 
have  stolen  your  father  away  from  your  mother.  So 
now  you  know  that  your  Pa  did  not  go  to  the  war. 
He  went  away  with  Rachel  Carter  and  left  your 
mother  to  die  of  a  broken  heart.  He  went  off  into  the 
wilderness  with  that  bad,  evil  woman.  Your  mother 


14s  VIOLA    GWYN 

was  unhappy.  She  died.  She  is  under  the  ground  up 
in  the  graveyard,  all  alone.  Rachel  Carter  put  her 
there,  Kenneth.  I  cannot  ask  you  to  hate  your  father. 
It  would  not  be  right.  He  is  your  father  in  spite  of 
everything.  You  know  what  the  Good  Book  says? 
'Honour  thy  father  and — '  how  does  the  rest  of  it  go, 
my  lad?" 

"  'Honour  thy  father  and  thy  mother  that  thou 
days  may  be  long  upon  thou  earth,'  "  murmured  Ken 
neth,  bravely. 

"When  you  are  a  little  older  you  will  realize  that 
your  father  did  not  honour  his  father  and  mother,  and 
then  you  may  understand  more  than  you  do  now.  But 
you  may  hate  Rachel  Carter.  You  must  hate  her. 
She  killed  your  mother.  She  stole  your  father.  She 
made  an  orphan  of  you.  She  destroyed  the  home 
where  you  used  to  live.  As  you  grow  older  I  will  try 
to  tell  you  how  she  did  all  these  things.  You  would 
not  understand  now.  There  is  one  of  the  Ten  Com 
mandments  that  you  do  not  understand, — I  mean  one 
in  particular.  It  is  enough  for  you  to  know  the  mean 
ing  of  the  one  that  says  'Thou  shalt  not  steal.'  You 
must  not  be  unhappy  over  what  I  have  told  you. 
Everything  will  be  all  right  with  you.  You  will  be 
safe  here  with  granny  and  me.  But  you  must  no  longer 
believe  that  your  father  went  to  the  war  like  other 
men  in  the  village.  If  he  were  my  son,  I  would — " 

"Don't  say  it,  Richard,"  cried  Kenneth's  grandma, 
from  the  doorway  behind  them.  "Don't  ever  say  that 
to  him." 


CHAPTER  I 

SHEI/TEE   FOB   THE   NIGHT 

NIGHT  was  falling  as  two  horsemen  drew  rein 
in  front  of  a  cabin  at  the  edge  of  a  clearing 
in  the  far-reaching  sombre  forest.  Their  ap 
proach  across  the  stump-strewn  tract  had  been  heralded 
by  the  barking  of  dogs, — two  bristling  beasts  that 
came  out  upon  the  muddy,  deep-rutted  road  to  greet 
them  with  furious  inhospitality.  A  man  stood  par 
tially  revealed  in  the  doorway.  His  left  arm  and 
shoulder  were  screened  from  view  by  the  jamb,  his  head 
was  bent  forward  as  he  peered  intently  through  nar 
rowed  eyes  at  the  strangers  in  the  road. 

"Who  are  you,  and  what  do  you  want?"  he  called 
out. 

"Friends.  How  far  is  it  to  the  tavern  at  Clark's 
Point?" 

"Clark's  Point  is  three  miles  back,"  replied  the  set 
tler.  "I  guess  you  must  have  passed  it  without  seein* 
it,"  he  added  drily.  "If  it  happened  to  be  rainin'  when 
you  come  through  you'd  have  missed  seein'  it  fer  the 
raindrops.  Where  you  bound  fer?" 

"Lafayette.  I  guess  we're  off  the  right  road.  We 
took  the  left  turn  four  or  five  miles  back." 

"You'd  ought  to  have  kept  straight  on.  Come  'ere, 
Shep !  You,  Pete !  Down  with  ye !" 

The  two  dogs,  still  bristling,  slunk  off  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  squat  log  barn.  A  woman  appeared  behind 

the  man  and  stared  out  over  his  shoulder.     From  the 

15 


16  VIOLA    GWYN 

tall  stone  chimney  at  the  back  of  the  cabin  rose  the 
blue  smoke  of  the  kitchen  fire,  to  be  whirled  away  on 
the  wind  that  was  guiding  the  storm  out  of  the  rum 
bling  north.  There  was  a  dull,  wavering  glow  in  the 
room  behind  her.  At  one  of  the  twe  small  windows 
gleamed  a  candle-light. 

"What's  takin'  you  to  Clark's  Point?  There  ain't 
no  tavern  there.  There  ain't  nothin'  there  but  a  hitch- 
post  and  a  waterin'-trough.  Oh,  yes,  I  forgot.  Right 
behind  the  hitch-post  is  Jake  Stone's  store  and  a 
couple  of  ash-hoppers  and  a  town-hall,  but  you 
wouldn't  notice  'em  if  you  happened  to  be  on  the 
wrong  side  of  the  post.  Mebby  it's  Middleton  you're 
lookin'  fer." 

"I  am  looking  for  a  place  to  put  up  for  the  night, 
friend.  We  met  a  man  back  yonder,  half  an  hour  ago, 
who  said  the  nearest  tavern  was  at  Clark's  Point." 

"What  fer  sort  of  lookin'  man  was  he?" 

"Tall  fellow  with  red  whiskers,  riding  a  grey  horse." 

"That  was  Jake  Stone  hisself.  Beats  all  how  that 
feller  tries  to  advertise  his  town.  He  says  it  beats 
Crawfordsville  and  Lafayette  all  to  smash,  an'  it's  only 
three  or  four  months  old.  Which  way  was  he  goin'?" 

"I  suppose  you'd  call  it  south.  I've  lost  my  bear 
ings,  you  see." 

"That's  it.  He  was  on  his  way  down  to  Attica  to 
get  drunk.  They  say  Attica's  goin'  to  be  the  biggest 
town  on  the  Wabash.  Did  I  ask  you  what  your  name 
was,  stranger?" 

"My  name  is  Gwynne.  I  left  Crawfordsville  this 
morning,  hoping  to  reach  Lafayette  before  night.  But 
the  road  is  so  heavy  we  couldn't — " 

"Been  rainin'  steady  for  nearly  two  weeks,"  inter 
rupted  the  settler.  "Hub-deep  everywhere.  It's  a 


SHELTER    FOR    THE   NIGHT      17 

good  twenty-five  or  thirty  mile  from  Crawfordsville  to 
Lafayette.  Looks  like  mere  rain,  too.  I  think  she'll 
be  on  us  in  about  two  minutes.  I  guess  mebby  we  c'n 
find  a  place  fer  you  to  sleep  to-night,  and  we  c'n  give 
you  somethin'  fer  man  an'  beast.  If  you'll  jest  ride 
around  here  to  the  barn,  we'll  put  the  hosses  up  an* 
feed  'em,  and — Eliza,  set  out  a  couple  more  plates, 
an'  double  the  rations  all  around."  His  left  arm  and 
hand  came  into  view.  "Set  this  here  gun  back  in  the 
corner,  Eliza.  I  guess  I  ain't  goin'  to  need  it.  Gimme 
my  hat,  too,  will  ye?" 

As  the  woman  drew  back  from  the  door,  a  third 
figure  came  up  behind  the  man  and  took  her  place. 
The  horseman  down  at  the  roadside,  fifty  feet  away, 
made  out  the  figure  of  a  woman.  She  touched  the 
man's  arm  and  he  turned  as  he  was  in  the  act  of  step 
ping  down  from  the  door-log.  She  spoke  to  him  in  a 
low  voice  that  failed  to  reach  the  ears  of  the  travel 
lers. 

The  man  shook  his  head  slowly,  and  then  called  out : 

"I  didn't  jist  ketch  your  name,  mister.  The  wind's 
makin'  such  a  noise  I —  Say  it  again,  will  ye?" 

"My  name  is  Kenneth  Gwynne.  Get  it?"  shouted 
the  horseman.  "And  this  is  my  servant,  Zachariah." 

The  man  in  the  door  bent  his  head,  without  taking 
his  eyes  from  the  horseman,  while  the  woman  mur 
mured  something  in  his  ear,  something  that  caused  him 
to  straighten  up  suddenly. 

"Where  do  you  come  from?"  he  inquired,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation. 

"My  home  is  in  Kentucky.     I  live  at — " 

"Kentucky,  eh?  Well,  that's  a  good  place  to  come 
from.  I  guess  you're  all  right,  stranger."  He  turned 
to  speak  to  his  companion.  A  few  words  passed  be- 


18  VIOLA    GWYN 

tween  them,  and  then  she  drew  back  into  the  room. 
The  woman  called  Eliza  came  up  with  the  man's  hat 
and  a  lighted  lantern.  She  closed  the  door  after  him 
as  he  stepped  out  into  the  yard. 

"  'Round  this  way,"  he  called  out,  making  off  toward 
the  corner  of  the  cabin.  "Don't  mind  the  dogs.  They 
won't  bite,  long  as  I'm  here." 

The  wind  was  wailing  through  the  stripped  trees 
behind  the  house, — a  sombre,  limitless  wall  of  trees  that 
seemed  to  close  in  with  smothering  relentlessness  about 
the  lonely  cabin  and  its  raw  field  of  stumps.  The  angry, 
low-lying  clouds  and  the  hastening  dusk  of  an  early 
April  day  had  by  this  time  cast  the  gloom  of  semi- 
darkness  over  the  scene.  Spasmodic  bursts  of  light 
ning  laid  thin  dull,  unearthly  flares  upon  the  desolate 
land,  and  the  rumble  of  apple-carts  filled  the  ear  with 
promise  of  disaster.  The  chickens  had  gone  to  roost; 
several  cows,  confined  in  a  pen  surrounded  by  the  cus 
tomary  stockade  of  poles  driven  deep  into  the  earth 
and  lashed  together  with  the  bark  of  the  sturdy  elm, 
were  huddled  in  front  of  a  rude  shed;  a  number  of 
squealing,  grunting  pigs  nosed  the  cracks  in  the  rail 
fence  that  formed  still  another  pen;  three  or  four 
pompous  turkey  gobblers  strutted  unhurriedly  about 
the  barnlot,  while  some  of  their  less  theatrical  hens 
perched  stiffly,  watchfully  on  the  sides  of  a  clumsy 
wagon-bed  over  against  the  barn.  Martins  and  chim 
ney-swallows  darted  above  the  cabin  and  out-buildings, 
swirling  in  mad  circles,  dipping  and  careening  with 
incredible  swiftness. 

The  gaunt  settler  conducted  the  unexpected  guests 
to  the  barn,  where,  after  they  had  dismounted,  he  as 
sisted  in  the  removal  of  the  well-filled  saddle-bags  and 
rolls  from  the  backs  of  their  jaded  horses. 


SHELTER    FOR    THE    NIGHT      19 

"Water?"  he  inquired  briefly. 

"No,  suh,"  replied  Zachariah,  blinking  as  the  other 
held  the  lantern  up  the  better  to  look  into  his  face. 
Zachariah  was  a  young  negro, — as  black  as  night,  with 
gleaming  white  teeth  which  he  revealed  in  a  broad  and 
friendly  grin.  "Had  all  dey  could  drink,  Marster, 
back  yander  at  de  crick." 

"You  couldn't  have  forded  the  Wea  this  time  last 
week,"  said  the  host,  addressing  Gwynne.  "She's  gone 
down  considerable  the  last  four-five  days.  Out  of  the 
banks  last  week  an'  runnin'  all  over  creation." 

"Still  pretty  high,"  remarked  the  other.  "Came 
near  to  sweeping  Zack's  mare  downstream  but — well, 
she  made  it  and  Zack  has  turned  black  again." 

The  settler  raised  his  lantern  again  at  the  stable 
door  and  looked  dubiously  at  the  negro. 

"You're  from  Kentucky,  Mr.  Gwynne,"  he  said, 
frowning.  "I  got  to  tell  you  right  here  an'  now  that 
if  this  here  boy  is  a  slave,  you  can't  stop  here, — an' 
what's  more,  you  can't  stay  in  this  county.  We  set 
tled  the  slavery  question  in  this  state  quite  a  spell 
back,  an'  we  make  it  purty  hot  for  people  who  try  to 
smuggle  niggers  across  the  border.  I  got  to  ask  you 
plain  an'  straight;  is  this  boy  a  slave?" 

"He  is  not,"  replied  Gwynne.  "He  is  a  free  man. 
If  he  elects  to  leave  my  service  to-morrow,  he  is  at 
liberty  to  go.  My  grandfather  freed  all  of  his  slaves 
shortly  before  he  died,  and  that  was  when  Zachariah 
here  was  not  more  than  fifteen  years  of  age.  He  is  as 
free  as  I  am, — or  you,  sir.  He  is  my  servant,  not  my 
slave.  I  know  the  laws  of  this  state,  and  I  intend  to 
abide  by  them.  I  expect  to  make  my  home  here  in 
Indiana, — in  Lafayette,  as  a  matter  of  fact.  This 
boy's  name  is  Zachariah  Button.  Ten  years  ago  he 


20  VIOLA    GWYN 

was  a  slave.  He  has  with  him,  sir,  the  proper  creden 
tials  to  support  my  statement, — and  his,  if  he  chooses 
to  make  one.  On  at  least  a  dozen  occasions,  first  in 
Ohio  and  then  in  Indiana,  I  have  been  obliged  to  con 
vince  official  and  unofficial  inquirers  that  my — '* 

"That's  all  right,  Mr.  Gwynne,"  cried  the  settler 
heartily.  "I  take  your  word  for  it.  If  you  say  he's 
not  a  slave,  why,  he  ain't,  so  that's  the  end  of  it.  And 
it  ain't  necessary  for  Zachariah  to  swear  to  it,  neither. 
We  can't  offer  you  much  in  the  way  of  entertainment, 
Mr.  Gwynne,  but  what  we've  got  you're  welcome  to. 
I  came  to  this  country  from  Ohio  seven  years  ago,  an' 
I  learned  a  whole  lot  about  hospitality  durin'  the 
journey.  I  learned  how  to  treat  a  stranger  in  a 
strange  land  fer  one  thing,  an'  I  learned  that  even  a 
hoss-thief  ain't  an  ongrateful  cuss  if  you  give  him  a 
night's  lodgin'  and  a  meal  or  two." 

"I  shall  be  greatly  indebted  to  you,  sir.  The  time 
will  surely  come  when  I  may  repay  you, — not  in  money, 
but  in  friendship.  Pray  do  not  let  us  discommode 
you  or  your  household.  I  will  be  satisfied  to  sleep  on 
the  floor  or  in  the  barn,  and  as  for  Zachariah,  he — " 

"The  barn  is  for  the  hosses  to  sleep  in,"  interrupted 
the  host,  "and  the  floor  is  for  the  cat.  'Tain't  my 
idee  of  fairness  to  allow  human  bein's  to  squat  on 
proppety  that  rightfully  belongs  to  hosses  an*  cats, — 
so  I  guess  you'll  have  to  sleep  in  a  bed,  Mr.  Gwynne." 
He  spoke  with  a  drawl.  "Zachariah  c'n  spread  his 
blankets  on  the  kitchen  floor  an*  make  out  somehow. 
Now,  if  you'll  jist  step  over  to  the  well  yander,  you'll 
find  a  wash  pan.  Eliza, — I  mean  Mrs.  Striker, — will 
give  you  a  towel  when  you're  ready.  Jest  sing  out 
to  her.  Here,  you,  Zachariah,  carry  this  plunder  over 
an*  put  it  in  the  kitchen.  Mrs.  Striker  will  show  you. 


SHELTER    FOR    THE    NIGHT      21 

Be  careful  of  them  rifles  of  your'n.  They  go  off  mighty 
sudden  if  you  stub  your  toe.  You'll  find  a  comb  and 
lookin'  glass  in  the  settin'  room,  Mr.  Gwynne.  You'll 
probably  want  to  put  a  few  extry  touches  on  your 
self  when  I  tell  you  there's  an  all-fired  purty  girl 
spendin'  the  night  with  us.  Go  along,  now.  I'll  put 
the  feed  down  fer  your  hosses  an'  be  with  you  in  less'n 
no  time." 

"You  are  very  kind,  Mr. —    Did  you  say  Striker?" 

"Phineas  Striker,  sir, — Phin  fer  short." 

"I  am  prepared  and  amply  able  to  pay  for  lodging 
and  food,  Mr.  Striker,  so  do  not  hesitate  to — " 

"Save  your  breath,  stranger.  I'm  as  deef  as  a  post. 
The  storm's  goin'  to  bust  in  two  shakes  of  a  dead 
lamb's  tail,  so  you'd  better  be  a  leetle  spry  if  you 
want  to  git  inside  afore  she  comes." 

With  that  he  entered  the  barn  door,  leading  the 
horses.  Gwynne  and  his  servant  hurried  through  the 
darkness  toward  the  light  in  the  kitchen  window.  The 
former  rapped  politely  on  the  door.  It  was  opened 
by  Mrs.  Striker,  a  tall,  comely  woman  well  under 
thirty,  who  favoured  the  good-looking  stranger  with 
a  direct  and  smileless  stare.  He  removed  his  tall, 
sorry-looking  beaver. 

"Madam,  your  husband  has  instructed  my  servant 
to  leave  our  belongings  in  your  kitchen.  I  fear  they 
are  not  overly  clean,  what  with  mud  and  rain,  devil- 
needles  and  burrs.  Your  kitchen  is  as  clean  as  a  pin. 
Shall  I  instruct  him  to  return  with  them  to  the  barn 
and—" 

"Bring  them  in,'*  she  said,  melting  in  spite  of  herself 
as  she  looked  down  from  the  doorstep  into  his  dark, 
smiling  eyes.  His  strong,  tanned  face  was  beardless, 
his  teeth  were  white,  his  abundant  brown  hair  tousled 


22  VIOLA    GWYN 

and  boyishly  awry, — and  there  were  mud  splashes  on 
his  cheek  and  chin.  He  was  tall  and  straight  and  his 
figure  was  shapely,  despite  the  thick  blue  cape  that 
hung  from  his  shoulders.  "I  guess  they  ain't  any 
dirtier  than  Phin  Striker's  boots  are  this  time  o'  the 
year.  Put  them  over  here,  boy,  'longside  o'  that  cup 
board.  Supper'll  be  ready  in  ten  or  fifteen  minutes, 
Mr.  Gwynne." 

His  smile  broadened.  He  sniffed  gratefully.  A  far 
more  exacting  woman  than  Eliza  Striker  would  have 
forgiven  this  lack  of  dignity  on  his  part. 

"You  will  find  me  ready  for  it,  Mrs.  Striker.  The 
smell  of  side-meat  goes  straight  to  my  heart,  and  noth 
ing  in  all  this  world  could  be  more  wonderful  than  the 
coffee  you  are  making." 

"Go  'long  with  you!"  she  cried,  vastly  pleased,  and 
turned  to  her  sizzling  skillets. 

Zachariah  deposited  the  saddle-bags  and  rolls  in  the 
corner  and  then  returned  to  the  door  where  he  received 
the  long  blue  cape,  gloves  and  the  towering  beaver 
from  his  master's  hands.  He  also  received  instructions 
which  sent  him  back  to  open  a  bulging  saddle-bag  and 
remove  therefrom  a  pair  of  soft,  almost  satiny  calf 
skin  boots.  As  he  hurried  past  Mrs.  Striker,  he  held 
them  up  for  her  inspection,  grinning  from  ear  to  ear. 
She  gazed  in  astonishment  at  the  white  and  silver  orna 
mented  tops,  such  as  were  affected  by  only  the  most 
fastidious  dandies  of  the  day  and  were  so  rarely  seen 
in  this  raw,  new  land  that  the  beholder  could  scarce 
believe  her  eyes. 

"Well,  I  never !"  she  exclaimed,  and  then  went  to  the 
sitting-room  to  whisper  excitedly  to  the  solitary  occu 
pant,  who,  it  so  chanced,  was  at  the  moment  busily 
and  hastily  employed  in  rearranging  her  brown,  wind- 


SHELTER    FOR    THE    NIGHT      23 

blown  hair  before  the  round-topped  little  looking-glass 
over  the  fireplace. 

"I  thought  you  said  you  wasn't  goin'  to  see  him," 
observed  Mrs.  Striker,  after  imparting  her  informa 
tion.  "If  you  ain't,  what  are  you  fixin'  yourself  up 
fer?" 

"I  have  changed  my  mind,  Eliza,"  said  the  young 
lady,  loftily.  "In  the  first  place,  I  am  hungry,  and  in 
the  second  place  it  would  not  be  right  for  me  to  put 
you  to  any  further  trouble  about  supper.  I  shall  have 
supper  with  the  rest  of  you  and  not  in  the  bedroom, 
after  all.  How  does  my  hair  look?" 

"You've  got  the  purtiest  hair  in  all  the — " 

"How  does  it  look?" 

"It  would  look  fine  if  you  never  combed  it.  If  I 
had  hair  like  your'n,  I'd  be  the  proudest  woman  in — " 

"Don't  be  silly.     It's  terrible,  most  of  the  time." 

"Well,  it's  spick  an'  span  now,  if  that's  what  you 
want  to  know,"  grumbled  Eliza,  and  vanished,  finger 
ing  her  straight,  straw-coloured  hair  somewhat  resent- 
fully. 

Meanwhile,  Kenneth  Gwynne,  having  divested  himself 
of  his  dark  blue  "swallow-tail,"  was  washing  his  face 
and  hands  at  the  well.  The  settler  approached  with 
the  lantern. 

"She's  comin',"  he  shouted  above  the  howling  wind. 
"I  guess  you'd  better  dry  yourself  in  the  kitchen. 
Hear  her  whizzin'  through  the  trees?  Gosh  all  hem 
lock!  She's  goin'  to  be  a  snorter,  stranger.  Hurry 
inside !" 

They  bolted  for  the  door  and  dashed  into  the  kitchen 
just  as  the  deluge  came.  Phineas  Striker,  leaning  his 
weight  against  the  door,  closed  it  and  dropped  the 
bolt. 


24,  VIOLA    GWYN 

"Whew!  She's  a  reg'lar  harricane,  that's  what  she 
is.  Mighty  suddent,  too.  Been  holdin'  back  fer  ten 
minutes, — an'  now  she  lets  loose  with  all  she's  got. 
Gosh !  Jest  listen  to  her !" 

The  hiss  of  the  torrent  on  the  clapboard  roof  was 
deafening,  the  little  window  panes  were  streaming;  a 
dark,  glistening  shadow  crept  out  from  the  bottom  of 
the  door  and  began  to  spread ;  the  howling  wind  shook 
the  very  walls  of  the  staunch  cabin,  while  all  about 
them  roared  the  ear-splitting  cannonade,  the  crash  of 
splintered  skies,  the  crackling  of  musketry,  the  rending 
and  tearing  of  all  the  garments  that  clothe  the  uni 
verse. 

Eliza  Striker,  hardy  frontierswoman  though  she  was, 
put  her  fingers  to  her  ears  and  shrank  away  from  the 
stove, — for  she  had  been  taught  that  all  metal  "drew 
lightning."  Her  husband  busied  himself  stemming  the 
stream  of  water  that  seeped  beneath  the  door  with 
empty  grain  or  coffee  bags,  snatched  from  the  top  of 
a  cupboard  where  they  were  stored,  evidently  for  the 
very  purpose  to  which  they  were  now  being  put. 

Gwynne  stood  coatless  in  the  centre  of  the  kitchen, 
rolling  down  his  white  shirt-sleeves.  Behind  him 
cringed  Zachariah,  holding  his  master's  boots  and  coat 
in  his  shaking  hands,  his  eyes  rolling  with  terror,  his 
lips  mumbling  an  unheard  appeal  for  mercy. 

The  sitting-room  door  opened  suddenly  and  the 
other  guest  of  the  house  glided  into  the  kitchen.  Her 
eyes  were  crinkled  up  as  if  with  an  almost  unendurable 
pain,  her  fingers  were  pressed  to  her  temples,  her  red 
lips  were  parted. 

"Goodness !"  she  gasped,  with  a  hysterical  laugh,  not 
born  of  mirth,  nor  of  courage,  but  of  the  sheerest 
dismay. 


SHELTER    FOR    THE    NIGHT      25 

"Don't  be  skeered,"  cried  Phineas,  looking  at  her 
over  his  shoulder.  "She'll  soon  be  over.  Long  as  the 
roof  stays  on,  we're  all  right, — an*  I  guess  she'll 
stay." 

Kenneth  Gwynne  bowed  very  low  to  the  newcomer. 
The  dim  candle-light  afforded  him  a  most  unsatisfac 
tory  glimpse  of  her  features.  He  took  in  at  a  glance, 
however,  her  tall,  trim  figure,  the  burnished  crown  of 
hair,  and  the  surprisingly  modish  frock  she  wore.  He 
had  seen  no  other  like  it  since  leaving  the  older,  more 
advanced  towns  along  the  Ohio, — not  even  in  the  thriv 
ing  settlements  of  Wayne  and  Madison  Counties  or  in 
the  boastful  village  of  Crawf ordsville.  He  was  startled. 
In  all  his  journeyings  through  the  land  he  had  seen 
no  one  arrayed  like  this.  It  was  with  difficulty  that  he 
overcame  a  quite  natural  impulse  to  stare  at  her  as  if 
•she  were  some  fantastic  curiosity. 

The  contrast  between  this  surprising  creature  and 
the  gingham  aproned  Eliza  was  unbelievable.  There 
was  but  one  explanation:  She  was  the  mistress  of  the 
house,  Eliza  the  servant.  And  yet,  even  so,  how 
strangely  out-of-place,  out-of-keeping  she  was  here  in 
the  wilderness. 

In  some  confusion  he  strode  over  to  lend  a  hand  to 
Phineas  Striker.  The  rustle  of  silk  behind  him  and 
the  quick  clatter  of  heels,  evidenced  the  fact  that  the 
girl  had  crossed  swiftly  to  Eliza's  side. 

Later  on  he  had  the  opportunity  to  take  in  all  the 
details  of  her  costume,  and  he  did  so  with  a  practised, 
sophisticated  eye.  It  was,  after  all,  of  a  fashion  two 
years  old,  evidence  of  the  slowness  with  which  the 
modes  reached  these  outposts  of  civilization.  Here 
was  a  perfect  fitting  blue  frock  of  the  then  popular 
changeable  gros  de  zane,  the  skirt  very  wide,  set  on  the 


26  VIOLA   GWYN 

body  in  large  plaits,  one  in  front,  one  on  each  side 
and  two  behind.  The  sleeves  also  were  wide  from 
shoulder  to  elbow,  where  they  were  tightly  fitted  to 
the  lower  arm.  The  ruffles  around  the  neck,  which  was 
open  and  rather  low,  and  about  the  wrists  were  of  plain 
bobinet  quilling.  Her  slippers  were  black,  with  cross- 
straps.  He  had  seen  such  frocks  as  this,  he  was  re 
minded,  in  fashionable  Richmond  and  New  York  only 
a  year  or  so  before,  but  nowhere  in  the  west.  Add  a 
Dunstable  straw  bonnet  with  its  strings  of  satin  and 
the  frilled  pelerine,  and  this  strange  young  woman 
might  have  just  stepped  from  her  carriage  in  the  most 
fashionable  avenue  in  the  land. 

Zachariah,  lacking  his  master's  good  manners,  gazed 
in  open-mouthed  wonder  at  the  lady,  forgetting  for  the 
moment  his  fear  of  the  tempest's  wrath.  Only  the  most 
hair-raising  crash  of  thunder  broke  the  spell,  causing 
him  to  close  his  eyes  and  resume  his  supplication. 

"Now's  your  chance  to  get  at  the  lookin5  glass, 
Mr.  Gwynne,"  said  Striker.  "Right  there  in  the 
sittin'-room.  Go  ahead ;  I'll  manage  this." 

Muttering  a  word  of  thanks,  the  young  man  turned 
to  leave  the  room.  He  shot  a  glance  at  his  fellow 
guest.  Her  back  was  toward  him,  she  had  her  hands 
to  her  ears,  and  something  told  him  that  her  eyes  were 
tightly  closed.  A  particularly  loud  crash  caused  her 
to  draw  her  pretty  shoulders  up  as  if  to  receive  the 
death-dealing  bolt  of  lightning.  He  heard  her  murmur 
again : 

"Goodness — gracious !" 

Eliza  suddenly  put  an  arm  about  her  waist  and  drew 
the  slender,  shivering  figure  close.  As  the  girl  buried 
her  face  upon  the  older  woman's  shoulder,  the  latter 
cried  out: 


SHELTER    FOR    THE   NIGHT      27 

"Land  sakes,  child,  you'll  never  get  over  bein'  a 
baby,  will  ye?" 

To  which  Phineas  Striker  added  in  a  great  voice: 
"Nor  you,  neither,  Eliza.  Ef  we  didn't  have  com 
pany  here  you'd  be  crawlin*  under  the  table  or  some 
thing.  She  ain't  afraid  of  wild  cats  or  rattlesnakes 
or  In j  ins  or  even  spiders,"  he  went  on,  addressing 
Gwynne,  "but  she's  skeered  to  death  of  lightnin'.  AnJ 
as  fer  that  young  lady  there,  she  wouldn't  be  afeared 
to  walk  from  here  to  Lafayette  all  alone  on  the  darkest 
night, — an'  look  at  her  now !  Skeered  out  of  her  boots 
by  a  triflin'  little  thunderstorm.  Why,  I  wouldn't 
give  two — " 

"My  goodness,  Phin  Striker,"  broke  in  his  wife,  a 
new  note  of  alarm  in  her  voice,  "I  do  hope  them 
chickens  an'  turkeys  have  got  sense  enough  to  get 
under  something  in  this  downpour.  If  they  ain't,  the 
whole  kit  an'  boodle  of  'em  will  be  drownded,  sure 
as—" 

"I  never  yet  see  a  hen  that  liked  water,"  interrupted 
Phineas.  "Er  a  turkey  either.  Don't  you  worry  about 
'em.  You  better  worry  about  that  side-meat  you're 
fryin'.  Ef  my  nose  is  what  it  ort  to  be,  I'd  say  that 
piece  o'  meat  was  bein'  burnt  to  death, — an'  that's  a 
lot  wuss  than  bein'  drownded.  They  say  drowndin'  is 
the  easiest  death — " 

"You  men  clear  out  o'  this  kitchen,"  snapped  Eliza. 
"Out  with  ye!  You  too,  Phin  Striker.  I'll  call  ye 
when  the  table's  set.  Now,  you  go  an'  set  over  there 
in  the  corner,  away  from  the  window,  deary,  where 
the  lightnin'  can't  git  at  you,  an' —  You'll  find  a  comb 
on  the  mantel-piece,  Mr.  Gwynne,  an'  Phineas  will  git 
you  a  boot- jack  out  o'  the  bedroom  if  that  darkey  is 
too  weak  to  pull  your  boots  off  for  you.  Don't  any 


28  VIOLA    GWYN 

of  you  go  trampin'  all  over  the  room  with  your  muddy 
boots.  I've  got  work  enough  to  do  without  scrubbin' 
floors  after  a  pack  of —  My  land!  I  do  believe  it's 
scorched.  An'  the  corn-bread  must  be — " 

Phineas,  after  a  doubtful  look  at  the  stopped-up 
door-crack,  led  the  way  into  the  sitting-room.  Zacha- 
riah  came  last  with  his  master's  boots  and  coat.  He 
was  mumbling  with  suppressed  fervour: 

"Oh,  Lord,  jes'  lemme  hab  one  mo'  chaince, — jes' 
one  mo'  chaince.  Good  Lord !  I  been  a  wicked,  ornery 
nigger, — only  jes'  gimme  jes'  one  mo'  chaince.  I  been 
a  wicked, — Yassuh,  Marster  Kenneth,  I  got  your 
boots.  Yassuh.  Right  heah,  suh.  Oh,  Lordy-Lordy ! 
Yassuh,  yassuh!" 

Seated  in  a  big  wooden  rocker  before  the  fireplace, 
Gwynne  stretched  out  his  long  legs  one  after  the  other ; 
Zachariah  tugged  at  the  heavy,  mud-caked  riding- 
boots,  grunting  mightily  over  a  task  that  gave  him 
sufficient  excuse  for  interjecting  sundry  irrelevant 
appeals  for  mercy  and  an  occasional  reference  to  his 
own  unworthiness  as  a  nigger. 

The  tempest  continued  with  unabated  violence.  The 
big,  raw-boned  Striker,  pulling  nervously  at  his  beard, 
stood  near  a  window  which  looked  out  upon  the  barn 
and  sheds,  plainly  revealed  in  the  blinding,  almost  un 
interrupted  flashes  of  lightning.  Such  sentences  as 
these  fell  from  his  lips  as  he  turned  his  face  from  the 
bleaching  flares  before  they  ended  in  mighty  crashes: 
"That  struck  powerful  nigh," — or  "I  seen  that  one 
runnin'  along  the  ground  like  a  ball  of  fire,"  or  "There 
goes  somethin'  near,"  or  "That  was  a  tree  jest  back 
o'  the  barn,  you'll  see  in  the  mornin'." 

"Dere  won't  never  be  any  mo'nin',"  gulped  the  un 
happy  Zachariah,  bending  lower  to  his  task,  which 


SHELTER    FOR    THE    NIGHT      29 

now  had  to  do  with  the  boot-straps  at  the  bottoms  of 
his  master's  trouser-legs.  Getting  to  his  feet,  he  pro 
ceeded,  with  a  well-trained  dexterity  that  even  his  ter 
ror  failed  to  divert,  to  draw  on  the  immaculate  calf 
skin  boots  with  the  gorgeous  tops.  Then  he  pulled 
the  trouser-legs  down  over  the  boots,  obscuring  their 
upper  glory ;  after  which  he  smoothed  out  the  wrinkles 
and  fastened  the  instep  straps.  Whereupon,  Kenneth 
arose,  stamped  severely  on  the  hearth  several  times  to 
settle  his  feet  in  the  snug-fitting  boots,  and  turned  to 
the  looking-glass.  He  was  wielding  the  comb  with 
extreme  care  and  precision  when  his  host  turned  from 
the  window  and  approached. 

"Seems  to  me  you're  goin'  to  a  heap  o'  trouble, 
friend,"  he  remarked,  surveying  the  tall,  graceful 
figure  with  a  rather  disdainful  eye.  "We  don't  dress 
up  much  in  these  parts,  'cept  on  Sunday." 

"Please  do  not  consider  me  vain,"  said  the  young 
man,  flushing.  He  smarted  under  the  implied  rebuke, 
— in  fact,  he  was  uncomfortably  aware  of  ridicule. 
"My  riding-boots  were  filthy.  I — I —  Yes,  I  know," 
he  broke  in  upon  himself  as  Phineas  extended  one  of 
his  own  muddy  boots  for  inspection.  "I  know,  but, 
you  see,  I  am  the  unbidden  guest  of  yourself  and  Mrs. 
Striker.  The  least  I  can  do  in  return  for  your  hos 
pitality  is  to  make  myself  presentable — " 

"You'll  have  to  excuse  my  grinnin',  Mr.  Gwynne," 
interrupted  the  other.  "I  didn't  mean  any  offence. 
It's  jest  that  we  ain't  used  to  good  clothes  an'  servants 
to  pull  our  boots  off  an'  on,  an' — butternut  pants  an' 
so  on.  We're  'way  out  here  on  the  edge  of  the  wilder 
ness  where  bluejeans  is  as  good  as  broadcloth  or  doe 
skin,  an'  a  chaw  of  tobacco  is  as  good  as  the  state 
seal  fer  bindin'  a  bargain.  Lord  bless  ye,  I  don't  keer 


30  VIOLA   GWYN 

how  much  you  dress  up.  I  guess  I  might  as  well  tell 
ye  the  only  men  up  at  Lafayette  who  wear  as  good 
clothes  as  you  do  are  a  couple  of  gamblers  that  work 
up  an'  down  the  river,  an*  Barry  Lapelle.  I  reckon 
you've  heerd  of  Barry  Lapelle.  He's  known  from  one 
end  of  the  state  to  the  other,  an*  over  in  Ohio  an* 
Kentucky  too.'* 

"I  have  never  heard  of  him." 

Striker  looked  surprised.  He  glanced  at  the  closed 
sitting-room  door  before  continuing. 

"Well,  he  owns  a  couple  steamboats  that  come  up 
the  river.  Got  *em  when  his  father  died  a  couple  o* 
years  ago.  His  home  used  to  be  in  Terry  Hut,  but 
he*s  been  livin*  at  Bob  Johnson's  tavern  for  a  matter 
of  six  months  now,  workin*  up  trade  fer  his  boats,  I 
understand.  He's  as  wild  as  a  hawk  an* — but  you'll 
run  across  him  if  you're  goin*  to  live  in  Lafayette." 

"By  the  way,  what  is  the  population  of  Lafayette?" 

Phineas  studied  the  board  ceiling  thoughtfully  for 
a  moment  or  two.  "Well,  'cordin*  to  people  who  live 
in  Attica  she's  got  about  five  hundred.  People  who 
live  in  Crawfordsville  give  her  seven  hundred.  Down 
at  Covington  an'  Williamsport  they  say  she's  got  about 
four  hundred  an*  twelve.  When  you  git  to  Lafayette 
Bob  Johnson  an*  the  rest  of  'em  will  tell  you  she's  over 
two  thousand  an*  growin*  so  fast  they  cain't  keep  track 
of  her.  There's  so  much  lyin*  goin'  on  about  Lafayette 
that  it's  impossible  to  tell  jest  how  big  she  is.  Countin* 
in  the  dogs,  I  guess  she  must  have  a  population  of 
between  six  hundred  and  fifty  an*  three  thousand.  You 
see,  everybody  up  there's  got  a  dog,  an'  some  of  'em 
two  er  three.  One  feller  I  know  has  got  seven.  But, 
on  the  whole,  I  guess  you'll  like  the  place.  It's  the 
head  of  navigation  at  high  water,  an*  if  they  ever  build 


SHELTER   FOR    THE    NIGHT      31 

the  Wabash  an'  Erie  Canal  they're  talkin'  about  she'll 
be  a  regular  seaport,  like  New  York  er  Boston.  'Pears 
to  me  the  worst  is  over,  don't  you  reckon  so?" 

Kenneth,  having  adjusted  his  stock  and  white  roll 
over  collar  to  suit  his  most  exacting  eye,  slipped  his 
arms  into  the  coat  Zachariah  was  holding  for  him,  set 
tled  the  shoulders  with  a  shrug  or  two  and  a  pull  at 
the  flaring  lapels,  smoothed  his  yellow  brocaded  waist 
coat  carefully,  and  then,  spreading  his  long,  shapely 
legs  and  at  the  same  time  the  tails  of  his  coat,  took  a 
commanding  position  with  his  back  to  the  blazing  logs. 

"Are  you  referring  to  my  toilet,  Mr.  Striker?"  he 
inquired  amiably. 

"I  was  talkin'  about  the  storm,"  explained  Phineas 
hastily.  "Take  the  boots  out  to  the  kitchen,  Zacha 
riah.  Eliza'll  git  into  your  wool  if  she  ketches  you 
leavin'  'em  in  here.  Yes,  sir,  she's  certainly  lettin'  up. 
Goin'  down  the  river  hell-bent.  They'll  be  gettin'  her 
at  Attica  'fore  long.  Are  you  plannin'  to  work  the 
farm  yourself,  Mr.  Gwynne,  or  are  you  goin'  to  sell 
er  rent  on  shares?" 

Gwynne  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  "You  appear  to 
know  who  I  am,  after  all,  Mr.  Striker." 

Striker  grinned.  "I  guess  everybody  in  this  neck 
o'  the  woods  has  heerd  about  you.  Dan  Bugher, — • 
he's  the  county  recorder, — an'  Rube  Kelsey,  John 
Bishop,  Larry  Stockton,  an'  a  lot  more  of  the  folks 
up  in  town,  have  been  lookin'  down  the  Crawfordsville 
road  fer  you  ever  since  your  father  died  last  August. 
You  'pear  to  be  a  very  important  cuss  fer  one  who 
ain't  never  set  foot  in  Indianny  before." 

"I  see,"  said  the  other  reflectively.  "Were  you  ac 
quainted  with  my  father,  Mr.  Striker?" 

"Much  so  as  anybody  could  be.     He  wasn't  much 


32  VIOLA    GWYN 

of  a  hand  fer  makin'  friends.  Stuck  purty  close  to  the 
farm,  an'  made  it  about  the  best  piece  o'  propetty  in 
the  whole  valley.  I  was  jest  wonderin'  whether  you 
was  plannin*  to  live  on  the  farm  er  up  in  town." 

"Well,  you  see,  I  am  a  lawyer  by  profession.  I 
know  little  or  nothing  about  farming.  My  plans  are 
not  actually  made,  however.  A  great  deal  depends  on 
how  I.  find  things.  Judge  Wylie  wishes  me  to  enter  into 
partnership  with  him,  and  Providence  M.  Curry  says 
there  is  a  splendid  chance  for  me  in  his  office  at  Craw- 
fordsville.  I  shall  do  nothing  until  I  have  gone  thor 
oughly  into  the  matter.  You  know  the  farm,  Mr. 
Striker?" 

"Yes.  It's  not  far  from  here, — five  or  six  mile,  I'd 
say,  to  the  north  an'  east.  Takes  in  some  of  the  finest 
land  on  the  Wea  Plain, — mostly  clear,  some  fine  timber, 
plenty  of  water,  an'  about  the  best  stocked  farm  any 
wheres  around.  Your  father  was  one  of  the  first  to 
edge  up  this  way  ten  er  twelve  year  ago,  an'  he  got 
the  pick  o'  the  new  land.  He  came  from  some'eres  down 
the  river,  'bout  Vincennes  er  Montezuma  er  some  such 
place.  I  reckon  you  know  that  he  left  another  passel 
of  land  over  this  way,  close  to  the  Wabash,  an'  some 
propetty  up  in  Lafayette  an'  some  more  down  in 
Crawfordsville." 

"I  have  been  so  informed,"  said  his  guest,  rather 
shortly. 

"I  bought  this  sixty  acre  piece  offen  him  two  year 
ago.  All  timber  when  I  took  hold  of  it,  'cept  seven 
teen  acres  out  thataway,"  jerking  his  thumb,  "along 
the  Middleton  road."  He  hesitated  a  moment.  "You 
see,  I  worked  for  your  father  fer  a  considerable  time, 
as  a  hand.  That's  how  he  came  to  sell  to  me.  I  got 
married  an*  wanted  a  place  of  my  own.  He  said  he'd 


SHELTER    FOR    THE    NIGHT      33 

sooner  sell  to  me  than  let  some  other  feller  cheat  the 
eye-teeth  outen  me,  me  bein*  a  good  deal  of  fool  when 
it  comes  to  business  an'  all.  Yep,  I'd  saved  up  a  few 
dollars,  so  I  sez  what's  the  sense  of  me  workin'  my  giz 
zard  out  fer  somebody  else  an'  all  that,  when  land's 
so  cheap  an'  life  so  doggoned  short.  'Course,  there's 
a  small  mortgage  on  the  place,  but  I  c'n  take  keer  of 
that,  I  reckon." 

"Ahem  !  The  mortgage,  I  fancy,  is  held  by — er — the 
other  heirs  to  his  property." 

"You're  right.  His  widder  holds  it,  but  she  ain't 
the  kind  to  press  me.  She's  purty  comfortable,  what 
with  this  land  along  the  edge  o'  the  plain  out  here  an* 
a  whole  section  up  in  the  Grand  Prairie  neighbourhood, 
besides  half  a  dozen  buildin'  lots  in  town  an*  a  two 
story  house  to  live  in  up  there.  To  say  nothin'  of — " 

"Come  to  supper,"  called  out  Mrs.  Striker  from  the 
doorway. 

"That's  somethin'  I'm  always  ready  fer,"  announced 
Mr.  Striker.  "Winter  an*  summer,  spring  an'  fall. 
Step  right  ahead,  Mr. — " 

"Just  a  moment,  if  you  please,"  said  the  young  man, 
laying  his  hand  on  the  settler's  arm.  "You  will  do  me 
a  great  favour  if  you  refrain  from  discussing  these  mat 
ters  in  the  presence  of  your  other  guest  to-night.  My 
father,  as  you  doubtless  know,  meant  very  little  in  my 
life.  I  prefer  not  to  discuss  him  in  the  presence  of 
strangers, — especially  curious-minded  young  women.'* 

Phineas  looked  at  him  narrowly  for  an  instant,  a 
queer  expression  lurking  in  his  eyes. 

"Jest  as  you  say,  Mr.  Gwynne.  Not  a  word  in  front 
of  strangers.  I  don't  know  as  you  know  it,  but  up  to 
the  time  your  father's  will  was  perduced  there  wasn't 
a  soul  in  these  parts  as  knowed  such  a  feller  as  you 


34.  VIOLA   GWYN 

wuz  on  earth.  He  never  spoke  of  a  son,  er  havin'  been 
married  before,  er  bein'  a  widower,  er  anything  like — " 

"I  am  thoroughly  convinced  of  that,  Mr.  Striker,*' 
said  Kenneth,  a  trifle  austerely,  and  passed  on  ahead  of 
his  host  into  the  kitchen. 

"Bring  in  them  two  candlesticks,  Phin,"  ordered  Mrs. 
Striker.  "We  got  to  be  able  to  see  what  each  other 
looks  like,  an'  goodness  knows  we  cain't  with  this  taller 
dip  I  got  out  here  to  cook  by.  'Tain't  often  we  have 
people  right  out  o'  the  fashion-plates  to  supper,  so  let's 
have  all  the  light  we  kin." 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   STRANGE   YOUNG   WOMAN 

THE  tempest  by  now  had  subsided  to  a  distant, 
rumbling  murmur,  although  the  rain  still  beat 
against  the  window-panes   in  fitful  gusts,   the 
while  it  gently  played  the  long  roll  on  the  clapboards 
a  scant  two  feet  above  the  tallest  head.     Far-off  flashes 
of  lightning  cast  ghastly  reminders  athwart  the  win 
dows,  fighting  the  yellow  candle  glow  with  a  sickly, 
livid  glare. 

Kenneth's  fellow-guest  was  standing  near  the  stove, 
her  back  toward  him  as  he  entered  the  kitchen.  The 
slant  of  the  "ceiling"  brought  the  crown  of  her  head 
to  within  a  foot  or  so  of  the  round,  peeled  beams  that 
supported  the  shed-like  roof,  giving  her  the  appearance 
of  abnormal  height.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  was  not 
as  tall  as  the  gaunt  Eliza,  who,  like  her  husband  and 
the  six-foot  guest,  was  obliged  to  lower  her  head  when 
passing  through  the  kitchen  door  to  the  yard. 

The  table  was  set  for  four,  in  the  middle  of  the  little 
kitchen;  rude  hand-made  stools,  without  backs,  were 
in  place.  A  figured  red  cloth  covered  the  board,  its 
fringe  of  green  hanging  down  over  the  edges.  The 
plates,  saucers  and  coffee-cups  were  thick  and  clumsy 
and  gaudily  decorated  with  indescribable  flowers  and 
vines  done  entirely  in  green — a  "set,"  no  doubt,  selected 
with  great  satisfaction  in  advance  of  the  Striker  nup 
tials.  There  were  black-handled  case-knives,  huge 

four-tined  forks,  and  pewter  spoons.    A  blackened  cof- 

35. 


36  VIOLA    GWYN 

fee-pot,  a  brass  tea-kettle  and  a  couple  of  shallow  skil 
lets  stood  on  the  square  sheet-iron  stove. 

"Come  in  and  set  down,  Mr.  Gwynne,"  said  Mrs. 
Striker,  pointing  to  a  stool.  With  the  other  hand  she 
deftly  "flopped"  an  odorous  corn-cake  in  one  of  the 
skillets.  There  was  a  far  from  unpleasant  odor  of 
grease. 

"I  can't  help  thanking  my  lucky  stars,  Mrs.  Striker, 
that  I  got  here  ahead  of  that  storm,"  said  he,  moving 
over  to  his  appointed  place,  where  he  remained  stand 
ing.  "We  were  just  in  time,  too.  Ten  minutes  later 
and  we  would  have  been  in  the  thick  of  it.  And  here 
we  are,  safe  and  sound  and  dry  as  toast,  in  the  presence 
of  a  most  inviting  feast.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  much 
I  appreciate  your  kindness." 

"Oh,  it's — it's  nothing,"  said  she,  diffidently.  Then 
to  Striker:  "Put  'em  here  on  the  table,  you  big  lum- 
mix.  Set  down,  everybody." 

The  young  lady  sat  opposite  Gwynne.  She  lowered 
her  head  immediately  as  Phineas  began  to  offer  up  his 
established  form  of  grace.  The  unhappy  host  got  him 
self  into  a  dire  state  of  confusion  when  he  attempted 
to  vary  the  habitual  prayer  by  tacking  on  a  few  words 
appertaining  to  the  recent  hurricane  and  God's  good 
ness  in  preserving  them  all  from  destruction  as  well  as 
the  hope  that  no  serious  damage  had  been  done  to  other 
live-stock  and  fowls,  or  to  the  life  and  property  of 
his  neighbours, — amen? 

To  which  Zachariah,  seated  on  a  roll  of  blankets  in 
the  corner,  appended  a  heartfelt  amen,  and  then  sank 
back  to  watch  his  betters  eat,  much  as  a  hungry  dog 
feasts  upon  anticipation.  He  knew  that  he  was  to 
have  what  was  left  over,  and  he  offered  up  a  silent 


THE  STRANGE  YOUNG  WOMAN   37 

prayer  of  his  own  while  wistfully  speculating  on  the 
prospects. 

The  two  colonial  candlesticks  stood  in  the  centre  of 
the  table,  a  foot  or  two  apart.  When  Gwynne  lifted 
his  head  after  "grace,"  he  looked  directly  between  them 
at  his  vis-a-vis.  For  a  few  seconds  he  stared  as  if 
spell-bound.  Then,  realizing  his  rudeness  and  conscious 
of  an  unmistakable  resentment  in  her  eyes,  he  felt  the 
blood  rush  to  his  face,  and  quickly  turned  to  stammer 
something  to  his  host, — he  knew  not  what  it  was. 

Never  had  he  looked  upon  a  face  so  beautiful,  never 
had  he  seen  any  one  so  lovely  as  this  strange  young 
woman  who  shared  with  him  the  hospitality  of  the 
humble  board.  He  had  gazed  for  a  moment  full  into 
her  deep,  violet  eyes, — eyes  in  which  there  was  no  smile 
but  rather  a  cool  intentness  not  far  removed  from  un 
friendliness, — and  in  that  moment  he  forgot  himself, 
his  manners  and  his  composure. 

The  soft  light  fell  upon  warm,  smooth  cheeks ;  a 
broad,  white  brew;  red,  sensitive  lips  and  a  perfect 
mouth;  a  round  firm  chin;  a  delicate  nose, — and  the 
faint  shadows  of  imperishable  dimples  that  even  her 
unsmiling  expression  failed  to  disturb. 

Not  even  in  his  dreams  had  he  conjured  up  a  face 
so  bewilderingly  beautiful. 

Her  hair,  which  was  puffed  and  waved  over  her  ears, 
took  on  the  shade  of  brown  spun  silk  on  which  the  light 
played  in  changing  tones  of  bronze.  It  was  worn  high 
on  her  head,  banded  a  la  grecque,  with  a  small  knot  on 
the  crown  from  which  depended  a  number  of  ringlets 
ornamented  with  bowknots.  Her  ears  were  completely 
hidden  by  the  soft  mass  that  came  down  over  them  in 
shapely  knobs.  She  wore  no  earrings, — for  which  he 


38  VIOLA    GWYN 

was  acutely  grateful,  although  they  were  the  fashion 
of  the  day  and  cumbersomely  hideous, — and  her 
shapely  throat  was  barren  of  ornament.  He  judged 
her  to  be  not  more  than  twenty-two  or  -three.  A 
second  furtive  glance  caught  her  looking  down  at  her 
plate.  He  marvelled  at  the  long,  dark  eyelashes. 

Who  was  she?  What  was  she  doing  here  in  the  hum 
ble  cot  of  the  Strikers?  Certainly  she  was  out  of  place 
here.  She  was  a  tender,  radiant  flower  set  down 
amongst  gross,  unlovely  weeds.  That  she  was  a  person 
of  consequence,  to  whom  the  Strikers  paid  a  rude  sort 
of  deference,  softened  by  the  familiarity  of  long  asso 
ciation  but  in  no  way  suggestive  of  relationship,  he 
was  in  no  manner  of  doubt. 

He  was  not  slow  to  remark  their  failure  to  present 
him,  to  her.  The  omission  may  have  been  due  to  igno 
rance  or  uncertainty  on  their  part,  but  that  was  not 
the  construction  he  put  upon  it.  Striker  was  the  free- 
and-easy  type  who  would  have  made  these  strangers 
known  to  each  other  in  some  bluff,  awkward  manner, — 
probably  by  their  Christian  names;  he  would  never 
have  overlooked  this  little  formality,  no  matter  how 
clumsily  he  may  have  gone  about  performing  it.  It 
was  perfectly  plain  to  Gwynne  that  it  was  not  an 
oversight.  It  was  deliberate. 

His  slight  feeling  of  embarrassment,  and  perhaps 
annoyance,  evidently  was  not  shared  by  the  young  lady ; 
so  far  as  she  was  concerned  the  situation  was  by  no 
means  strained.  She  was  as  calm  and  serene  and  im 
pervious  as  a  princess  royal. 

She  joined  in  the  conversation,  addressed  herself  to 
him  without  constraint,  smiled  amiably  (and  adorably) 
upon  the  busy  Eliza  and  her  jovial  spouse,  and  even 
laughed  alooid  over  the  latter's  account  of  Zachariah 


THE  STRANGE  YOUNG  WO  MAN   39 

and  the  silver-top  boots.  Gwynne  remarked  that  it  was 
a  soft,  musical  laugh,  singularly  free  from  the  shrill, 
boisterous  qualities  so  characteristic  of  the  backwoods- 
woman.  She  possessed  the  poise  of  refinement.  He  had 
seen  her  counterpart, — barring  her  radiant  beauty, — 
many  a  time  during  his  years  in  the  cultured  east:  in 
Richmond,  in  Philadelphia,  and  in  New  York,  where 
he  had  attended  college. 

He  was  subtly  aware  of  the  lively  but  carefully 
guarded  interest  she  was  taking  in  him.  He  felt 
rather  than  knew  that  she  was  studying  him  closely, 
if  furtively,  when  his  face  was  turned  toward  the  talk 
ative  host.  Twice  he  caught  her  in  the  act  of  averting 
her  gaze  when  he  suddenly  glanced  in  her  direction, 
and  once  he  surprised  her  in  a  very  intense  scrutiny, — 
which,  he  was  gratified  to  observe,  gave  way  to  a  swift 
flush  of  confusion  and  the  hasty  lowering  of  her  eyes. 
No  doubt,  he  surmised  with  some  satisfaction,  she  was 
as  vastly  puzzled  as  himself,  for  he  must  have  appeared 
equally  out-of-place  in  these  surroundings.  His 
thoughts  went  delightedly  to  the  old,  well-beloved  story 
of  Cinderella.  Was  this  a  Cinderella  in  the  flesh, — and 
in  the  morning  would  he  find  her  in  rags  and  tatters, 
slaving  in  the  kitchen? 

He  noticed  her  hands.  They  were  long  and  slim 
and,  while  browned  by  exposure  to  wind  and  sun,  bore 
no  evidence  of  the  grinding  toil  to  which  the  women 
and  girls  of  the  frontier  were  subjected.  And  they 
were  strong,  competent  hands,  at  that. 

The  food  was  coarse,  substantial,  plentiful.  (Even 
Zachariah  could  see  that  it  was  plentiful.)  Solid  food 
for  sturdy  people.  There  were  potatoes  fried  in  grease, 
wide  strips  of  side  meat,  apple  butter,  corn-cakes  pip 
ing  hot,  boiled  turnips,  coffee  and  dried  apple  pie.  The 


40  VIOLA    GWYN 

smoky  odor  of  frying  grease  arose  from  the  skillets 
and,  with  the  grateful  smell  of  coffee,  permeated  the 
tight  little  kitchen.  It  was  a  savoury  that  consoled 
rather  than  offended  the  appetite  of  these  hardy  eaters. 

Striker  ate  largely  with  his  knife,  and  smacked  his 
lips  resoundingly;  swigged  coffee  from  his  saucer 
through  an  overlapping  moustache  and  afterwards  hiss- 
ingly  strained  the  aforesaid  obstruction  with  his  nether 
lip;  talked  and  laughed  with  his  mouth  full, — but  all 
with  such  magnificent  zest  that  his  guests  overlooked 
the  shocking  exhibition.  Indeed,  the  girl  seemed  quite 
accustomed  to  Mr.  Striker's  table-habits,  a  circum 
stance  which  created  in  Kenneth's  questing  mind  the 
conviction  that  she  was  not  new  to  these  parts,  despite 
the  garments  and  airs  of  the  fastidious  East. 

They  were  vastly  interested  in  the  account  of  his 
journey  through  the  wilderness. 

"Nowadays,"  said  Striker,  "most  people  come  up 
the  river,  'cept  them  as  hail  from  Ohio.  You  must  ha' 
come  by  way  of  Wayne  an'  Madison  Counties." 

"I  did,"  said  his  guest.  "We  found  it  fairly  com 
fortable  travelling  through  Wayne  County.  The  roads 
are  decent  enough  and  the  settlers  are  numerous.  It 
was  after  we  left  Madison  County  that  we  encountered 
hardships.  We  travelled  for  a  while  with  a  party  of 
emigrants  who  were  heading  for  the  settlement  at  Straw- 
town.  There  were  three  families  of  them,  including  a 
dozen  children.  Our  progress  was  slow,  as  they  trav 
elled  by  wagon.  Rumours  that  the  Indians  were  threat 
ening  to  go  on  the  warpath  caused  me  to  stay  close  by 
this  slow-moving  caravan  for  many  miles,  not  only  for 
my  own  safety  but  for  the  help  I  might  be  able  to 
render  them  in  case  of  an  attack.  At  Strawtown  we 
learned  that  the  Indians  were  peaceable  and  that  there 


THE  STRANGE  YOUNG  WOMAN   41 

was  no  truth  in  the  stories.  So  Zachariah  and  I 
crossed  the  White  River  at  that  point  and  struck  off 
alone.  We  followed  the  wilderness  road, — the  old  In 
dian  trace,  you  know, — and  we  travelled  nearly  thirty 
miles  without  seeing  a  house.  At  Brown's  Wonder  we 
met  a  party  of  men  who  had  been  out  in  this  country 
looking-  things  over.  They  were  so  full  of  enthusiasm 
about  the  prairies  around  here, — the  Wea,  the  Wild 
Cat  and  Shawnee  prairies, — that  I  was  quite  thrilled 
over  the  prospect  ahead,  and  no  longer  regretted  the 
journey  which  had  been  so  full  of  privations  and  hard 
ships  and  which  I  had  been  so  loath  to  undertake  in 
the  beginning.  Have  you  been  at  Thorntown  re 
cently?" 

"Nope.  Not  sence  I  came  through  there  some  years 
ago.  It  was  purty  well  deserted  in  those  days.  Nothin' 
there  but  Injin  wigwams  an'  they  was  mostly  run  to 
seed.  At  that  time,  Crawfordsville  was  the  only  town 
to  speak  of  between  Terry  Hut  an'  Fort  Wayne,  'way 
up  above  here." 

"Well,  there  are  signs  of  a  white  settlement  there 
now.  Some  of  the  old  French  settlers  are  still  there 
and  other  whites  are  coming  in.  I  had  heard  a  great 
deal  about  the  big  Indian  village  at  Thorntown,  and 
was  vastly  disappointed  in  what  I  found.  I  am  quite 
romantic,  Miss — ahem! — quite  romantic  by  nature, 
having  read  and  listened  to  tales  of  thrilling  adventures 
among  the  redskins,  as  we  call  them  down  my  way, 
until  I  could  scarce  contain  myself.  I  have  always 
longed  for  the  chance  to  rescue  a  beautiful  white  cap 
tive  from  the  clutches  of  the  cruel  redskins.  My 
valour — " 

"And  I  suppose  you  always  dreamed  of  marrying 
her  as  they  always  do  in  stories?"  said  she,  smiling. 


42  VIOLA    GWYN 

"Invariably,"  said  he.  "Alas,  if  I  had  rescued  all 
the  fair  maidens  my  dreams  have  placed  in  jeopardy, 
I  should  by  this  time  have  as  many  wives  as  Solomon. 
Only,  I  must  say  in  defence  of  my  ambitions,  I  should 
not  have  had  as  great  a  variety.  Strange  as  it  may 
seem,  I  remained  through  all  my  adventures  singularly 
constant  to  a  certain  idealistic  captive.  She  looked,  I 
may  say,  precisely  alike  in  each  and  every  case.  Poor 
old  Solomon  could  not  say  as  much  for  his  thousand 
wives.  Mine,  if  I  had  them,  would  be  so  much  alike 
in  face  and  form  that  I  could  not  tell  one  from  the 
other, — and,  now  that  I  am  older  and  wiser, — though 
not  as  wise  as  Solomon, — I  am  thankful  that  not  one 
of  these  daring  rescues  was  ever  consummated,  for  I 
should  be  very  much  distressed  now  if  I  found  myself 
married  to  even  the  most  beautiful  of  the  ladies  my 
feeble  imagination  conceived." 

This  subtle  touch  of  gallantry  was  over  the  heads 
of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Striker.  As  for  the  girl,  she  looked 
momentarily  startled,  and  then  as  the  dimples  deepened, 
a  faint  flush  rose  to  her  cheeks.  An  instant  later,  the 
colour  faded,  and  into  her  lovely  eyes  came  a  cold,  un 
friendly  light.  Realizing  that  he  had  offended  her  with 
this  gay  compliment, — although  he  had  never  before 
experienced  rebuff  in  like  circumstances, — he  hastened 
to  resume  his  narrative. 

"We  finally  came  to  Sugar  River  and  followed  the 
road  along  the  southern  bank.  You  may  know  some 
of  the  settlers  we  found  along  the  river.  Wisehart 
and  Kinworthy  and  Dewey?  They  were  among  the 
first  to  come  to  this  part  of  the  country,  I  am  informed. 
Fine,  brave  men,  all  of  them.  In  Crawfordsville  I 
stopped  at  the  tavern  conducted  by  Major  Ristine. 
While  there  I  consulted  with  Mr.  Elston  and  Mr.  Wil- 


THE  STRANGE  YOUNG  WOMAN  43 

son  and  others  about  the  advisability  of  selling  my 
land  up  here  and  my  building  lots  in  Lafayette.  They 
earnestly  advised  me  not  to  sell.  In  their  opinion  La 
fayette  is  the  most  promising  town  on  the  Wabash, 
while  the  farming  land  in  this  section  is  not  equalled 
anywhere  else  in  the  world.  Of  course,  I  realize  that 
they  are  financially  interested  in  the  town  of  Lafayette, 
owning  quite  a  lot  of  property  there,  so  perhaps  I 
should  not  be  guided  solely  by  their  enthusiasm." 

"They  are  the  men  who  bought  most  of  Sam  Sar- 
geant's  lots  some  years  back,"  said  Striker,  "when 
there  wasn't  much  of  anything  in  the  way  of  a  town, — 
them  and  Jonathan  Powers,  I  think  it  was.  They  paid 
somethin'  like  a  hundred  an'  fifty  dollars  for  more'n 
half  of  the  lots  he  owned,  an'  then  they  started  right 
in  to  crow  about  the  place.  I  was  workin'  down  at 
Crawfordsville  at  the  time.  They  had  plenty  of  chance 
to  talk,  'cause  that  town  was  full  of  emigrants,  land- 
grabbers,  travellers  an'  setch  like.  That  was  before 
the  new  county  was  laid  out,  you  see.  Up  to  that  time 
all  the  land  north  of  Montgomery  County  was  what 
was  called  Wabash  County.  It  run  up  as  fer  as  Lake 
Michigan,  with  the  j  edges  an'  courts  an'  land  offices 
fer  the  whole  district  all  located  in  Crawfordsville. 
Maybe  you  don't  know  it,  but  Tippecanoe  County  is 
only  about  six  years  old.  She  was  organized  by  the 
legislature  in  1826.  To  show  you  how  smart  Elston 
and  them  other  fellers  was,  they  donated  a  lot  of  their 
property  up  in  Lafayette  to  the  county  on  condition 
that  the  commissioners  located  the  county  seat  there. 
That's  how  she  come  to  be  the  county  seat,  spite  of 
the  claims  of  Americus  up  on  the  east  bank  of  the  Wa 
bash. 

"Maybe  you've  heard  of  Bill  Digby.     He's  the  feller 


44.  VIOLA    GWYN 

that  started  the  town  o'  Lafayette.  Well,  a  couple  o* 
days  after  he  laid  out  the  town  o*  Lafayette, — named 
after  a  Frenchman  you've  most  likely  heerd  about, — 
he  up  an'  sold  the  whole  place  to  Sam  Sargeant  fer  a 
couple  o*  hundred  dollars,  they  say.  He  kept  enough 
ground  fer  a  ferry  landin'  an'  a  twenty-acre  piece  up 
above  the  town  fer  specolatin'  purposes,  I  understand. 
He  afterwards  sold  this  twenty-acre  piece  to  Sam  fer 
sixty  dollars,  an'  thought  he  done  mighty  well.  When 
I  first  come  to  the  Wea,  Lafayette  didn't  have  more'n 
half  a  dozen  cabins.  I  went  through  her  once  on  my 
way  up  to  the  tradin'  house  at  Longlois,  couple  a  mile 
above.  You  wouldn't  believe  a  town  could  grow  as 
fast  as  Lafayette  has  in  the  last  couple  o*  years.  If 
she  keeps  on  she'll  be  as  big  as  all  get-out,  an'  Craw- 
fordsville  won't  be  nowhere.  Tim  Horran  laid  out 
Fairfield  two-three  years  back,  over  east  o'  here.  Been 
a  heap  o'  new  towns  laid  out  this  summer,  all  around 
here.  But  I  guess  they  won't  amount  to  much.  Jo- 
siah  Halstead  and  Henry  Ristine  have  jest  laid  out 
the  town  o'  Columbia,  down  near  the  Montgomery  line. 
Over  on  Lauramie  Crick  is  a  town  called  Cleveland,  an* 
near  that  is  Monroe,  jest  laid  out  by  a  feller  named 
Major.  There's  another  town  called  Concord  over 
east  o'  Columbia.  There  may  be  more  of  'em,  but  I 
ain't  heerd  of  'em  yet.  They  come  up  like  mushrooms, 
an'  'fore  you  know  it,  why,  there  they  are. 

"This  land  o'  yours,  Mr.  Gwynne,  lays  'tween  here 
an'  this  new  settlement  o'  Columbia,  an'  I  c'n  tell  you 
that  it  ain't  to  be  beat  anywheres  in  the  country.  I'd 
say  it  is  the  best  land  your  fa — er — ahem!"  The 
speaker  was  seized  with  a  violent  and  obviously  un 
necessary  spell  of  coughing.  "Somethin*  must  ha' 
gone  the  wrong  way,"  he  explained,  lamely.  "Feller 


THE  STRANGE  YOUNG  WOMAN  45 

ort  to  have  more  sense'n  to  try  to  swaller  when  he's 
talkin'." 

"Comes  of  eatin'  like  a  pig,'*  remarked  his  wife, 
glaring  at  him  as  she  poured  coffee  into  Gwynne's 
empty  cup.  "Mr.  Gwynne'll  think  you  don't  know 
any  better.  He  never  eats  like  this  on  Sunday,"  she 
explained  to  their  male  guest. 

"I  got  a  week-day  style  of  eatin'  an'  one  strickly 
held  back  fer  Sunday,"  said  Phineas.  "Same  as  clothes 
er  havin'  my  boots  greased." 

Kenneth  was  watching  the  face  of  the  girl  opposite. 
She  was  looking  down  at  her  plate.  He  observed  a 
little  frown  on  her  brow.  When  she  raised  her  eyes 
to  meet  his,  he  saw  that  they  were  sullen,  almost  un 
pleasantly  so.  She  did  not  turn  away  instantly,  but 
continued  to  regard  him  with  a  rather  disconcerting 
intensity.  Suddenly  she  smiled.  The  cloud  vanished 
from  her  brow,  her  eyes  sparkled.  He  was  bewildered. 
There  was  no  mistaking  the  unfriendliness  that  had 
lurked  in  her  eyes  the  instant  before.  But  in  heaven's 
name,  what  reason  had  she  for  disliking  him? 

"If  you  believe  all  that  Phineas  says,  you  will  think 
you  have  come  to  Paradise,"  she  said.  At  no  time  had 
she  uttered  his  name,  in  addressing  him,  although  it  was 
frequently  used  by  the  Strikers.  She  seemed  to  be  de 
liberately  avoiding  it. 

"It  is  a  present  comfort,  at  least,  to  believe  him," 
he  returned.  "I  hope  I  may  not  see  the  day  when  I 
shall  have  to  take  him  to  task  for  misleading  me  in 
so  vital  a  matter." 

"I  hope  not,"  said  she,  quietly. 

As  he  turned  to  Striker,  he  caught  that  worthy  gaz 
ing  at  him  with  a  fixed,  inquisitive  stare.  He  began  to 
feel  annoyed  and  uncomfortable.  It  was  not  the  first 


46  VIOLA   GWYN 

time  he  had  surprised  a  similar  scrutiny  on  the  part  of 
one  or  the  other  of  the  Strikers.  Phineas,  on  being  de 
tected,  looked  away  abruptly  and  mumbled  something 
about  "God's  country." 

The  young  man  decided  it  was  time  to  speak.  "By 
the  way  you  all  look  at  me,  Mr.  Striker,  I  am  led  to 
suspect  that  you  do  not  believe  I  am  all  I  represent 
myself  to  be.  If  you  have  any  doubts,  pray  do  not 
hesitate  to  express  them." 

Striker  was  boisterously  reassuring.  "I  don't  doubt 
you  fer  a  second,  Mr.  Gwynne.  As  I  said  before,  the 
whole  county  has  been  expectin'  you  to  turn  up.  We 
heerd  a  few  days  back  that  you  was  in  Crawfordsville. 
If  me  an*  Eliza  seem  to  act  queer  it's  because  we  knowed 
your  father  an' — an*,  well,  I  can't  help  noticin*  how 
much  you  look  like  him.  When  he  was  your  age  he 
must  have  looked  enough  like  you  to  be  your  twin 
brother.  We  don't  mean  no  disrespect,  an*  I  hope 
you'll  overlook  our  nateral  curiosity." 

Kenneth  was  relieved.  The  furtive  looks  were  ex 
plained. 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  that  you  do  not  look  upon  me 
as  an  outlaw  or — " 

"Lord  bless  you,"  cried  Striker,  "there  ain't  no 
body  as  would  take  you  fer  an  outlaw.  You  ain't  cut 
out  fer  a  renegade.  We  know  'em  the  minute  we  lay 
eyes  on  'em.  Same  as  we  know  a  Pottawatomy  Injin 
from  a  Shawnee,  er  a  jack-knife  from  a  Bowie.  No, 
there  ain't  no  doubt  in  my  mind  about  you  bein*  your 
father's  son — an'  heir,  as  the  sayin*  goes.  If  you 
turn  out  to  be  a  scalawag,  I'll  never  trust  my  eyes 
ag'in." 

The  young  man  laughed.  "In  any  case,  you  are 
very  good  to  have  taken  me  in  for  the  night,  and  I 


THE  STRANGE  YOUNG  WOMAN  4T 

shall  not  forget  your  trust  or  your  hospitality.  Wolves 
go  about  in  sheep's  clothing,  you  see,  and  the  smartest 
of  men  are  sometimes  fooled."  He  turned  abruptly 
to  the  girl.  "Did  you  know  my  father,  too?" 

She  started  violently  and  for  the  moment  was  speech 
less,  a  curious  expression  in  her  eyes. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  at  last,  looking  straight  at  him: 
"Yes,  I  knew  your  father  very  well." 

"Then,  you  must  have  lived  in  these  parts  longer 
than  I  have  suspected,"  said  he.  "I  should  have  said 
you  were  a  newcomer." 

Mrs.  Striker  made  a  great  clatter  of  pans  and  skil 
lets  at  the  stove.  The  girl  waited  until  this  kindly 
noise  subsided. 

"I  have  lived  in  this  neighbourhood  since  I  was  eight 
years  old,"  she  said,  quietly. 

Striker  hastened  to  add:  "Somethin*  like  ten  or 
'leven  years, — 'leven,  I  reckon,  ain't  it?" 

"Eleven  years,"  she  replied. 

Gwynne  was  secretly  astonished  and  rather  skeptical. 
He  would  have  taken  oath  that  she  was  twenty-two 
or-three  years  old,  and  not  nineteen  as  computation 
made  her. 

"She  ain't  lived  here  all  the  time,"  volunteered  Eliza, 
somewhat  defensively.  "She  was  to  school  in  St.  Louis 
fer  two  or  three  years  an* — " 

The  young  lady  interrupted  the  speaker  coldly. 
"Please,  Eliza!" 

Eliza,  looking  considerably  crestfallen,  accepted  the 
rebuke  meekly.  "I  jest  thought  he'd  be  interested," 
she  murmured. 

"She  came  up  the  Wabash  when  she  was  nothin'  but 
a  stripling"  began  Striker,  not  profiting  by  his  wife's 
experience.  He  might  have  gone  on  at  considerable 


48  VIOLA    GWYN 

length  if  he  had  not  met  the  reproving,  violet  eye.  He 
changed  the  subject  hastily.  "As  I  was  sayin',  we've 
had  a  powerful  lot  o'  rain  lately.  Why,  by  gosh,  last 
week  you  could  have  went  fishin'  in  our  pertato  patch 
up  yander  an'  got  a  mess  o'  sunfish  in  less'n  no  time. 
I  never  knowed  the  Wabash  to  be  on  setch  a  rampage. 
An*  as  fer  the  Wild  Cat  Crick  and  Tippecanoe  River, 
why,  they  tell  me  there  ain't  been  anything  like — 
How's  that?" 

"Is  Wabash  an  Indian  name?"  repeated  Kenneth. 

"That's  what  they  say.  Named  after  a  tribe  that 
used  to  hunt  an'  fish  up  an'  down  her,  they  say." 

"There  was  once  a  tribe  of  Indians  in  this  part  of 
the  country,"  broke  in  the  girl,  with  sudden  zest, 
"known  as  the  Ouabachi.  We  know  very  little  about 
them  nowadays,  however.  They  were  absorbed  by  other 
and  stronger  tribes  far  back  in  the  days  of  the  French 
occupation,  I  suppose.  French  trappers  and  voyageurs 
are  known  to  have  traversed  and  explored  the  wilderness 
below  here  at  least  one  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago. 
There  is  an  old  French  fort  quite  near  here, — Ouia- 
tanon." 

"She  knows  purty  nigh  everything,"  said  Phineas, 
proudly.  "Well,  I  guess  we're  about  as  full  as  it's 
safe  to  be,  so  now's  your  chance,  Zachariah." 

He  pushed  back  his  stool  noisily  and  arose.  Taking 
up  the  two  candlesticks,  he  led  the  way  to  the  sitting- 
room,  stopping  at  the  door  for  a  word  of  instruction 
to  the  negro.  "You  c'n  put  your  blankets  down  here 
on  the  kitchen  floor  when  you're  ready  to  go  to  bed. 
Mrs.  Striker  will  kick  you  in  the  mornin'  if  you  ain't 
awake  when  she  comes  out  to  start  breakfast." 

"Yassuh,    yassuh,"    grinned    the    hungry    darkey. 
"Missus  won't  need  fo*  to  kick  more'n  once,  suh, — 


THE  STRANGE  YOUNG  WOMAN  49 

'cause  Ise  gwine  to  be  hungry  all  over  ag'in  'long  about 
breakfus  time, — yas-suh!" 

"Zachariah  will  wash  the  dishes  and — "  began  Ken 
neth,  addressing  Mrs.  Striker,  who  was  already  pre 
paring  to  cleanse  and  dry  her  pots  and  pans.  She  in 
terrupted  him. 

"He  won't  do  nothin'  of  the  kind.  I  don't  let  no 
body  wash  my  dishes  but  myself.  Set  down  here,  Zach 
ariah,  an'  help  yourself.  When  you're  done,  you  c'n  go 
out  an'  carry  me  in  a  couple  of  buckets  o'  water  from 
the  well, — an,  that's  all  you  can  do." 

"I  guess  I'll  go  out  an'  take  a  look  around  the  barn 
an'  pens,"  said  Phineas,  depositing  the  candles  on  the 
mantelpiece.  "See  if  everything's  still  there  after  the 
storm.  No,  Mr.  Gwynne, — you  set  down.  No  need  o' 
you  goin'  out  there  an'  gettin'  them  boots  o'  your'n 
all  muddy." 

He  took  up  the  lantern  and  lighted  the  tallow  wick 
from  one  of  the  candles.  Then  he  fished  a  corncob 
pipe  from  his  coattail  pocket  and  stuffed  it  full  of 
tobacco  from  a  small  buckskin  bag  hanging  at  the 
end  of  the  mantel. 

"He'p  yourself  to  tobaccer  if  you  keer  to  smoke. 
There's  a  couple  o'  fresh  pipes  up  there, — jest  made 
'em  yesterday, — an'  it  ain't  ag'inst  the  law  to  smoke 
in  the  house  on  rainy  nights.  Used  to  be  a  time  when 
we  was  first  married  that  I  had  to  go  out  an'  git  wet 
to  the  skin  jest  because  she  wouldn't  'low  no  tobaccer 
smoke  in  the  house.  Many's  the  time  I've  sot  on  the 
doorstep  here  enjoyin'  a  smoke  with  the  rain  comin' 
down  so  hard  it'd  wash  the  tobaccer  right  out  o*  the 
pipe,  an*  twice  er  maybe  it  was  three  times  it  biled 
over  an* —  What's  that  you  say?" 

"I  did  not  say  anything,  Phineas,"  said  the  girl, 


50  VIOLA    GWYN 

shaking    her    head    mournfully.      "I    am    wondering, 
though,  where  you  will  go  when  you  die." 

"Where  I  c'n  smoke  'thout  runnin'  the  risk  o'  takin' 
cold,  more'n  likely,"  replied  Phineas,  winking  at  the 
young  man.  Then  he  went  out  into  the  windy  night, 
closing  the  door  behind  him. 


CHAPTER  III 

SOMETHING  ABOUT  CLOTHES,  AND  MEN,  AND  CATS 

SMILING  over  the  settler's  whimsical  humour, 
Gwynne  turned  to  his  companion,  anticipating 
a  responsive  smile.  Instead  he  was  rewarded  by 
an  expression  of  acute  dismay  in  her  dark  eyes.  He 
recalled  seeing  just  such  a  look  in  the  eyes  of  a  cor 
nered  deer.  She  met  his  gaze  for  a  fleeting  instant  and 
then,  turning  away,  walked  rapidly  over  to  the  little 
window,  where  she  peered  out  into  the  darkness.  He 
waited  a  few  moments  for  her  to  recover  the  composure 
so  inexplicably  lost,  and  then  spoke, — not  without  a 
trace  of  coldness  in  his  voice. 

"Pray  have  this  chair."  He  drew  the  rocking-chair 
up  to  the  fireplace,  setting  it  down  rather  sharply  upon 
the  strip  of  rag  carpet  that  fronted  the  wide  rock- 
made  hearth.  "You  need  not  be  afraid  to  be  left  alone 
with  me.  I  am  a  most  inoffensive  person.'* 

He  saw  her  figure  straighten.  Then  she  faced  him, 
her  chin  raised,  a  flash  of  indignation  in  her  eyes. 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  you,"  she  said  haughtily.  "Why 
should  you  presume  to  make  such  a  remark  to  me?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  bowing.  "I  am  sorry 
if  I  have  offended  you.  No  doubt,  in  my  stupidity,  I 
have  been  misled  by  your  manner.  Now,  will  you  sit 
down — and  be  friendly?" 

His  smile  was  so  engaging,  his  humility  so  genuine, 
that  her  manner  underwent  a  swift  and  agreeable 
change.  She  advanced  slowly  to  the  fireplace,  a  shy, 

abashed  smile  playing  about  her  lips. 

51 


52  VIOLA    GWYN 

"May  I  not  stand  up  for  a  little  while?"  she  pleaded, 
with  mock  submissiveness.  "I  do  so  want  to  grow  tall." 

"To  that  I  can  offer  no  objection,"  he  returned ;  "al 
though  in  my  humble  opinion  you  would  do  yourself  a 
very  grave  injustice  if  you  added  so  much  as  the  eighth 
of  an  inch  to  your  present  height." 

"I  feel  quite  small  beside  you,  sir,"  she  said,  taking 
her  stand  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  hearth,  from  which 
position  she  looked  up  into  his  admiring  eyes. 

"I  am  an  overgrown,  awkward  lummix,"  he  said  airily. 
"The  boys  called  me  'beanpole'  at  college." 

"You  are  not  an  awkward  lummix,  as  you  call  your 
self, — though  what  a  lummix  is  I  have  not  the  slightest 
notion.  Mayhap  if  you  stood  long  enough  you  might 
grow  shorter.  They  say  men  do, — as  they  become 
older."  She  ran  a  cool,  amused  eye  over  his  long,  well- 
proportioned  figure,  taking  in  the  butter-nut  coloured 
trousers,  the  foppish  waistcoat,  the  high-collared  blue 
coat,  and  the  handsome  brown-thatched  head  that 
topped  the  whole  creation.  He  was  almost  a  head 
taller  than  she,  and  yet  she  was  well  above  medium 
height. 

"How  old  are  you?"  she  asked,  abruptly.  Again  she 
was  serious,  unsmiling. 

"Twenty-five,"  he  replied,  looking  down  into  her 
dark,  inquiring  eyes  with  something  like  eagerness  in 
his  own.  He  was  saying  over  and  over  again  to  him 
self  that  never  had  he  seen  any  one  so  lovely  as  she. 
"I  am  six  years  older  than  you.  Somehow,  I  feel  that 
I  am  younger.  Rather  odd,  is  it  not?" 

"Six  years,"  she  mused,  looking  into  the  fire.  The 
glow  of  the  blazing  logs  cast  changing,  throbbing 
shadows  across  her  face,  now  soft  and  dusky,  like  velvet, 
under  the  warm  caress  of  the  firelight.  "Sometimes  I 


SOMETHING    ABOUT    CLOTHES      53 

feel  much  older  than  nineteen,"  she  went  on,  shaking 
her  head  as  if  puzzled.  "I  remember  that  I  was  sup 
posed  to  be  very  large  for  my  age  when  I  was  a  little 
girl.  Everybody  commented  on  my  size.  I  used  to  be 
ashamed  of  my  great,  gawky  self.  But,"  she  continued, 
shrugging  her  pretty  shoulders,  "that  was  ages  ago." 

He  drew  a  step  nearer  and  leaned  an  elbow  on  the 
mantel. 

"You  say  you  knew  my  father,"  he  said,  haltingly. 
"What  was  he  like?" 

She  raised  her  eyes  quickly  and  for  an  instant  studied 
his  face  curiously,  as  if  searching  for  something  that 
baffled  her  understanding. 

"He  was  very  tall,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "As 
tall  as  you  are." 

"I  have  only  a  dim  recollection  of  him,"  he  said. 
"You  see,  I  made  my  home  with  my  grandparents  after 
I  was  five  years  old."  He  did  not  offer  any  further 
information.  "As  a  tiny  lad  I  remember  wishing  that 
I  might  grow  up  to  be  as  big  as  my  father.  Did  you 
know  him  well?" 

If  she  heard,  she  gave  no  sign  as  she  turned  away 
again.  This  time  she  walked  over  to  the  cabin  door, 
which  she  opened  wide,  letting  in  a  rush  of  chill,  damp 
air.  He  felt  his  choler  rise.  It  was  a  deliberate,  in 
tentional  act  on  her  part.  She  desired  to  terminate 
the  conversation  and  took  this  rude,  insolent  means  of 
doing  so.  Never  had  he  been  so  flagrantly  insulted, — 
and  for  what  reason?  He  had  been  courteous,  defer 
ential,  friendly.  What  right  had  she, — this  insuffer 
able  peacock, — to  consider  herself  his  superior?  Hot 
words  rushed  to  his  lips,  but  he  checked  them.  He  con 
tented  himself  with  an  angry  contemplation  of  her  slen 
der,  graceful  figure  as  she  poised  in  the  open  doorway, 


54  VIOLA    GWYN 

holding  the  latch  in  one  hand  while  the  other  was 
pressed  against  her  bare  throat  for  protection  against 
the  cold  night  air.  Her  ringlets,  flouted  by  the  wind, 
threshed  merrily  about  the  crown  of  her  head.  He 
noted  the  thick  coil  of  hair  that  capped  the  shapely 
white  neck.  Despite  his  rancour  and  the  glowering 
gaze  he  bent  upon  her,  he  was  still  lamentably  con 
scious  of  her  perfections.  He  had  it  in  his  heart  to 
go  over  and  shake  her  soundly.  It  would  be  a  relief  to 
see  her  break  down  and  whimper.  It  would  teach  her 
not  to  be  rude  to  gentlemen  1 

The  two  dogs  came  racing  up  to  the  threshold.  She 
half-knelt  and  stroked  their  heads. 

"No,  no !"  she  cried  out  to  them.  "You  cannot  come 
in!  Back  with  you,  Shep!  Pete!  That's  a  good 
dog!" 

Then  she  arose  and  quickly  closed  the  door. 

"The  wind  is  veering  to  the  south,"  she  said  calmly, 
as  she  advanced  to  the  fireplace.  She  was  shivering. 
"That  means  fair  weather  and  warmer.  We  may  even 
see  the  sun  to-morrow." 

She  held  out  her  hands  to  the  blaze. 

"Won't  you  have  this  chair  now?"  he  said  stiffly, 
formally.  She  was  looking  down  into  the  fire,  but  he 
saw  the  dimple  deepen  in  her  cheek  and  an  almost  im 
perceptible  twitching  at  the  corner  of  her  mouth.  Con 
found  her,  was  she  laughing  at  him  ?  Was  he  a  source 
of  amusement  to  her? 

She  turned  her  head  and  glanced  up  at  him  over  her 
shoulder.  He  caught  a  strained,  appealing  gleam  in 
her  eyes. 

"Please  forgive  me  if  I  was  rude,"  she  said,  quite 
humbly. 

He  melted  a  little.     He  no  longer  desired  to  shake 


SOMETHING    ABOUT    CLOTHES      55 

her.  "I  feared  I  had  in  some  way  offended  you,"  he 
said. 

She  shook  her  head  and  was  silent  for  a  moment  or 
two,  staring  thoughtfully  at  the  flames.  A  faint  sigh 
escaped  her,  and  then  she  faced  him  resolutely,  frankly. 

"You  have  succeeded  fairly  well  in  concealing  your 
astonishment  at  seeing  me  here  in  this  hut,  dressed  as 
I  am,"  she  said,  somewhat  hurriedly.  "You  have  been 
greatly  puzzled.  I  am  about  to  confess  something  to 
you.  You  will  see  me  again, — often  perhaps, — if  you 
remain  long  in  this  country.  It  is  my  wish  that  you 
should  not  know  who  I  am  to-night.  You  will  gain 
nothing  by  asking  questions,  either  of  me  or  of  the 
Strikers.  You  will  know  in  the  near  future,  so  let  that 
be  sufficient.  At  first  I — " 

"You  have  my  promise  not  to  disregard  your  wishes 
in  this  or  any  other  matter,"  he  said,  bowing  gravely. 
"I  shall  ask  no  questions." 

"Ah,  but  you  have  been  asking  questions  all  to  your 
self  ever  since  you  came  into  this  cabin  and  saw  me — 
in  all  this  finery — and  you  will  continue  to  ask  them," 
she  declared  positively.  "I  do  not  blame  you.  I  can 
at  least  account  for  my  incomprehensible  costume. 
That  much  you  shall  have,  if  no  more.  This  frock  is 
a  new  one.  It  has  just  come  up  the  river  from  St. 
Louis.  I  have  never  had  it  on  until  to-day.  Another 
one,  equally  as  startling,  lies  in  that  bedroom  over 
there,  and  beside  it  on  the  bed  is  the  dress  I  came  here 
in  this  afternoon.  It  is  a  plain  black  dress,  and  there  is 
a  veil  and  a  hideous  black  bonnet  to  go  with  it."  She 
paused,  a  bright  little  gleam  of  mingled  excitement  and 
defiance  in  her  eyes. 

"You — you  have,  lost — I  mean,  you  are  in  mourning 
for  some  one?"  he  exclaimed.  The  thought  rushed  into 


56  VIOLA    GWYN 

his  mind:  Was  she  a  widow?  This  radiantly  beautiful 
girl  a  widow? 

"For  my  father,"  she  stated  succinctly.  "He  died 
almost  a  year  ago.  I  was  in  school  at  St.  Louis  when 
it  happened.  I  had  not  seen  him  for  two  years.  My 
mother  sent  for  me  to  come  home.  Since  that  time  I 
have  worn  nothing  but  black, — plain,  horrible  black. 
Do  not  misjudge  me.  I  am  not  vain,  nor  am  I  as  heart 
less  as  you  may  be  thinking.  I  had  and  still  have  the 
greatest  respect  for  my  father.  He  was  a  good  man, 
a  fine  man.  But  in  all  the  years  of  my  life  he  never 
spoke  a  loving  word  to  me,  he  never  caressed  me,  he 
never  kissed  me.  He  was  kindness  itself,  but — he  never 
looked  at  me  with  love  in  his  eyes.  I  don't  suppose 
you  can  understand.  I  was  the  flesh  of  his  flesh,  and 
yet  he  never  looked  at  me  with  love  in  his  eyes. 

"As  I  grew  older  I  began  to  think  that  he  hated  me. 
That  is  a  terrible  thing  to  say, — and  you  must  think 
it  vile  of  me  to  say  it  to  you,  a  stranger.  But  I  have 
said  it,  and  I  would  not  take  it  back.  I  have  seen  in 
his  eyes, — they  were  brooding,  thoughtful  eyes, — I  have 
seen  in  them  at  times  a  look — Oh,  I  cannot  tell  you 
what  it  seemed  like  to  me.  I  can  only  say  that  it  had 
something  like  despair  in  it, — sadness,  unhappiness, — 
and  I  could  not  help  feeling  that  I  was  the  cause  of  it. 
When  I  was  a  tiny  girl  he  never  carried  me  in  his  arms. 
My  mother  always  did  that.  When  I  was  thirteen 

«/  •/ 

years  old  he  hired  me  out  as  a  servant  in  a  farmer's 
family  and  I  worked  there  until  I  was  fourteen.  It  was 
not  in  this  neighbourhood.  I  worked  for  my  board  and 
keep,  a  thing  I  could  not  understand  and  bitterly  re 
sented  because  he  was  prosperous.  Then  my  mother 
fell  ill.  She  was  a  strong  woman,  but  she  broke  down 
in  health.  He  came  and  got  me  and  took  me  home. 


SOMETHING    ABOUT    CLOTHES      57 

I  was  a  big  girl  for  my  age, — as  big  as  I  am  now, — and 
strong.  I  did  all  the  work  about  the  house  until  my 
mother  was  well  again.  He  never  gave  me  a  word 
of  appreciation  or  one  of  encouragement. 

"He  was  never  unkind,  he  never  found  fault  with 
me,  he  never  in  all  his  life  scolded  or  switched  me  when 
I  was  bad.  Then,  one  day, — it  was  three  years  ago, — 
he  told  me  to  get  ready  to  go  down  to  St.  Louis  to 
school.  He  put  me  in  charge  of  a  trader  and  his  wife 
who  were  going  down  the  river  by  perogue.  He  gave 
them  money  to  buy  suitable  clothes  for  me, — a  large 
sum  of  money,  it  must  have  been, — and  he  provided 
me  with  some  for  my  own  personal  use.  All  arrange 
ments  had  been  made  in  advance,  without  my  knowing 
anything  about  it. 

"I  stayed  there  until  I  was  called  home  by  his  death. 
I  expected  to  return  to  school,  but  my  mother  refused 
to  let  me  go  back.  She  said  my  place  was  with  her. 
That  was  last  fall.  She»is  still  in  the  deepest  mourning, 
and  I  believe  will  never  dress  otherwise.  I  have  said 
all  there  is  to  say  about  my  father.  I  did  not  love 
him,  I  was  not  grieved  when  he  passed  away.  It  was 
almost  as  if  a  stranger  had  died." 

She  paused.  He  took  occasion  to  remark,  sympa 
thetically:  "He  must  have  been  a  strange  man." 

"He  was,"  she  said.  "I  hope  I  have  made  you  un 
derstand  what  kind  of  a  man  he  was,  and  what  kind 
of  a  father  he  was  to  me.  Now,  I  am  coming  to  the 
point.  This  finery  you  see  me  in  now  was  purchased 
without  my  mother's  knowledge  or  consent, — with 
money  of  my  own.  The  box  was  delivered  to  Phineas 
Striker  day  before  yesterday  up  in  Lafayette.  I  came 
here  to  spend  the  night,  in  order  that  I  might  try  them 
on.  I  live  in  town,  with  my  mother.  She  left  the  farm 


58  VIOLA    GWYN 

after  my  father's  death.  She  adored  him.  She  could 
not  bear  to  live  out  there  on  the  lonely — but,  that  is 
of  no  interest  to  you.  A  few  weeks  ago  I  asked  her  if 
I  might  not  take  off  the  black.  She  refused  at  first,  but 
finally  consented.  I  have  her  promise  that  I  may  put 
on  colours  sometime  this  spring.  So  I  wrote  to  the 
woman  who  used  to  make  my  dresses  in  St.  Louis, — 
my  father  was  not  stingy  with  me,  so  I  always  had 
pretty  frocks, — and  now  they  have  come.  My  mother 
does  not  know  about  them.  She  will  be  shocked  when 
I  tell  her  I  have  them,  but  she  will  not  be  angry.  She 
loves  me.  Is  your  curiosity  satisfied?  It  will  have  to 
be,  for  this  is  all  I  care  to  divulge  at  present." 

He  smiled  down  into  her  earnest  eyes.  "My  curiosity 
is  appeased,"  he  said.  "I  should  not  have  slept  to 
night  if  you  had  not  explained  this  tantalizing  mystery. 
Therefore,  I  thank  you.  May  I  have  your  permission 
to  say  that  you  are  very  lovely  in  your  new  frock  and 
that  you  are  marvellously  becoming  to  it?" 

"As  you  have  already  said  it,  I  must  decline  to  give 
you  the  permission,"  she  replied,  naively. 

He  thought  her  adorable  in  this  mood.  "As  a  law 
yer,"  he  said,  "I  make  a  practice  of  never  withdrawing  a 
statement,  unless  I  am  convinced  by  incontrovertible 
evidence  that  I  was  wrong  in  the  first  place, — and  you 
will  have  great  difficulty  in  producing  the  proof." 

"Wait  till  you  see  me  in  my  black  dress  and  bon 
net, — and  mittens,"  she  challenged. 

He  bowed  gallantly.  "Only  the  addition  of  the 
veil, — it  would  have  to  be  a  very  thick  one, — I  am 
sure, — could  make  me  doubt  my  own  eyes.  They  are 
witnesses  whose  testimony  it  will  be  very  hard  to  shake." 

Her  manner  underwent  another  transformation,  as 
swift  as  it  was  unexpected.  A  troubled,  harassed  ex- 


SOMETHING    ABOUT    CLOTHES      59 

pression  came  into  her  eyes,  driving  out  the  sparkle  that 
had  filled  them  during  that  all  too  brief  exchange.  The 
smile  died  on  her  lips,  which  remained  drawn  and 
slightly  parted  as  if  frozen;  she  seemed  for  the  moment 
to  have  stopped  breathing.  He  was  acutely  alive  to 
the  old  searching,  penetrating  look, — only  now  there 
was  an  added  note  of  uneasiness.  In  another  moment 
all  this  had  vanished,  and  she  was  smiling  again, — 
not  warmly,  frankly  as  before,  but  with  a  strange  wist- 
fulness  that  left  him  more  deeply  perplexed  than  ever. 

"I  wonder, — "  she  began,  and  then  shook  her  head 
without  completing  the  sentence.  After  a  moment  she 
went  on :  "Phineas  is  a  long  time.  I  hope  all  is  well." 

They  heard  the  kitchen  door  open  and  close  and 
Striker's  voice  loudly  proclaiming  the  staunchness  of 
his  outbuildings,  a  speech  cut  short  by  Eliza's  exaspera 
tion. 

"How  many  times  do  I  have  to  tell  you,  Phin  Striker, 
not  to  come  in  this  here  kitchen  without  wipin'  your 
feet?  Might  as  well  be  the  barn,  fer  as  you're  con 
cerned.  Go  out  an'  scrape  that  mud  offen  your  boots." 

Deep  mumbling  and  then  the  opening  and  shutting 
of  the  door  again. 

"Sometimes,  I  fear,  poor  Phineas  finds  matrimony 
very  trying,"  said  the  girl,  her  eyes  twinkling. 

Eliza  appeared  in  the  doorway.  She  was  rolling 
down  her  sleeves. 

"How  are  you  two  gettin'  along?"  she  inquired,  look 
ing  from  one  to  the  other  keenly.  "I  thought  Phin 
was  in  here  amusin'  you  the  whole  time  with  lies  about 
him  an'  Dan'l  Boone.  He  used  to  hunt  with  old  Dan'l 
when  he  was  a  boy,  an'  if  ever'thing  happened  to  them 
two  fellers  that  he  sez  happened,  why,  Phin'd  have  to 
be  nearly  two  hundred  years  old  by  now  an'  there 


60  VIOLA   GWYN 

wouldn't  be  a  live  animal  or  Indian  between  here  an' 
the  Gulf  of  Mexico."  She  seemed  a  little  uneasy.  "I 
hope  you  two  made  out  all  right." 

The  girl  spoke  quickly,  before  her  companion  could 
reply.  "We  have  had  a  most  agreeable  chat,  Eliza. 
Are  you  through  in  the  kitchen?  If  you  are,  would 
you  mind  coming  into  the  bedroom  with  me?  I  want 
you  to  see  the  other  dress  on  me,  and  besides  I  have 
a  good  many  things  I  wish  to  talk  over  with  you.  Good 
night,"  she  said  to  Gwynne.  "No  doubt  we  shall  meet 
again." 

He  was  dumbfounded.  "Am  I  not  to  see  you  in  the 
new  dress?"  he  cried,  visibly  disappointed.  "Surely 
you  are  not  going  to  deny  me  the  joy  of  beholding  you 
in—" 

She  interrupted  him  almost  cavalierly.  "Pray  save 
up  some  of  your  compliments  against  the  day  when  you 
behold  me  in  my  sombre  black,  for  I  shall  need  them 
then.  Again,  good  night." 

"Good  night,"  he  returned,  bowing  stiffly  and  in 
high  dudgeon. 

Eliza,  in  hurrying  past,  had  snatched  one  of  the 
candlesticks  from  the  mantel,  and  now  stood  holding 
the  bedroom  door  open  for  the  queenly  young  person 
age.  A  moment  later  the  door  closed  behind  them. 

Gwynne  was  still  scowling  at  the  inoffensive  door 
when  Striker  came  blustering  into  the  room. 

"Where  are  the  women?"  he  demanded,  stopping 
short. 

A  jerk  of  the  thumb  was  his  answer. 

"Gone  to  bed?"  with  something  like  an  accusing 
gleam  in  his  eye  as  his  gaze  returned  to  the  young 
man. 

"I  believe  so,"  replied  Gwynne  carelessly,  as  he  sat 


SOMETHING    ABOUT    CLOTHES      61 

down  in  the  despised  rocker  and  stretched  his  long 
legs  out  to  the  fire.  "I  fancy  we  are  safe  to  smoke  now, 
Striker.  We  have  the  parlor  all  to  ourselves.  The 
ladies  have  deserted  us." 

Striker  took  the  tobacco  pouch  from  the  peg  on  the 
mantel  and  handed  it  to  his  guest. 

"Fill  up,"  he  said  shortly,  and  then  walked  over  to 
the  bedroom  door.  He  rapped  timorously  on  one  of 
the  thick  boards.  "Want  me  fer  anything?"  he  inquired 
softly,  as  his  wife  opened  the  door  an  inch  or  two. 

"No.  Go  to  bed  when  you're  ready  an'  don't  ferget 
to  smother  that  fire." 

"Good  night,  Phineas,"  called  out  another  voice  mer 
rily. 

"Good  night,"  responded  Striker,  with  a  dubious 
shake  of  his  head.  He  returned  to  the  fireplace. 

"Women  are  funny  things,"  said  he,  dragging  up 
another  chair.  "  'Specially  about  boots.  I  go  out 
'long  about  sun-up  an'  work  like  a  dog  all  day,  an' 
then  when  I  come  in  to  supper  what  happens?  First 
thing  my  wife  does  is  to  look  at  my  boots.  Then  she 
tells  me  to  go  out  an'  scrape  the  mud  off'm  'em.  Then 
she  looks  up  at  my  face  to  see  if  it's  me.  Sometimes 
I  get  so  doggoned  mad  I  wish  it  wasn't  me,  so's  I  could 
turn  out  to  be  the  preacher  er  somebody  like  that  an' 
learn  her  to  be  keerful  who  she's  talkin'  to.  Supposin' 
I  do  track  a  little  mud  into  her  kitchen?  It's  our  mud, 
ain't  it?  'Tain't  as  if  it  was  somebody  else's  land  I'm 
bringin'  into  her  kitchen.  Between  us  we  own  every 
danged  bit  of  land  from  here  to  the  Middleton  dirt- 
road  an'  it  ain't  my  fault  if  it  happens  to  be  mud  once 
in  awhile.  You'd  think,  the  way  she  acts,  I'd  been  out 
stealin'  somebody  else's  mud  just  for  the  sake  of  bringin* 
it  into  her  kitchen. 


62  VIOLA    GWYN 

"An*  what  makes  me  madder'n  anything  else  is  the 
way  she  scolds  them  pore  dogs  when  they  come  in  with 
a  little  mud.  As  if  a  dog  understood  he  had  to  scrape 
his  feet  off  an'  wash  his  paws  an'  everything  'fore  he 
c'n  step  inside  his  master's  cabin.  Now  you  take  cats, 
they're  as  smart  as  all  get  out.  They're  jist  like 
women.  Allus  thinkin'  about  their  pussonal  appearance. 
Ever  notice  a  cat  walk  across  a  muddy  strip  o'  ground? 
Why,  you'd  think  they  was  walkin'  on  a  red  hot  stove, 
the  way  they  step.  I've  seen  a  cat  go  fifty  rods  out  of 
her  way  to  get  around  a  mud-puddle.  I  recollect  seein' 
ole  Maje, — he's  our  principal  tom-cat, — seein'  him 
creepin'  along  a  rail  fence  nearly  half  a  mile  from  the 
house  so's  he  wouldn't  have  to  cross  a  stretch  o'  wet 
ground  jist  outside  the  kitchen  door.  Now,  a  dog 
would  have  splashed  right  through  it  an'  took  the  con 
sequences.  But  ole  Maje — no,  sir!  He  goes  miles 
out'n  his  way  an'  then  when  he  gits  home  he  sets  down 
on  the  doorstep  an*  licks  his  feet  fer  half  an  hour  er 
so  before  he  begins  to  meow  so's  Eliza'll  open  the  door 
an'  let  him  in. 

"Ever*  so  often  I  got  to  tie  a  litter  of  kittens  up  in 
a  meal-bag  an'  take  'em  over  to  the  river  an'  drownd 
'em,  an'  I  want  to  tell  you  it's  a  pleasure  to  do  it.  You 
never  in  all  your  life  heerd  of  anybody  puttin'  a  litter 
of  pups  in  a  bag  an'  throwin'  'em  in  the  river,  did  ye? 
No,  sirree !  Dogs  is  like  men.  They  grow  up  to  be  use 
ful  citizens,  mud  er  no  mud.  Why,  if  I  had  a  dog  what 
sat  down  on  the  doorstep  an'  licked  his  paws  ever'  time 
he  got  mud  on  'em  I'd  take  him  out  an'  shoot  him, 
'cause  I'd  know  he  wasn't  no  kind  of  a  dog  at  all.  Now, 
Eliza's  tryin'  to  make  me  act  like  a  cat,  an'  me  hatin* 
cats  wuss'n  pison.  There's  setch  a  thing  as  bein'  too 
danged  clean,  don't  you  think  so?  Sort  o'  takes  the 


SOMETHING    ABOUT    CLOTHES      63 

self-respect  away  from  a  man.  Makes  you  feel  as  if 
you'd  ort  to  have  petticoats  on  in  place  o'  pants.  How 
do  you  like  that  terbaccer?" 

Throughout  the  foregoing  dissertation,  Gwynne  had 
sat  with  his  moody  gaze  fixed  upon  the  flaring  logs, 
which  Striker  had  kicked  into  renewed  life  with  the 
heel  of  one  of  his  ponderous  boots,  disdaining  the  stout 
charred  poker  that  leaned  against  the  chimney  wall. 
He  was  pulling  dreamily  at  the  corncob  pipe;  the  fra 
grant  blue  smoke,  drifting  toward  the  open  fireplace, 
was  suddenly  caught  by  the  draft  and  drawn  stringily 
into  the  hot  cavern  where  it  was  lost  in  the  hickory 
volume  that  swept  up  the  chimney. 

He  had  taken  in  but  a  portion  of  his  host's  remarks ; 
his  thoughts  were  not  of  dogs  and  cats  but  of  the  per 
plexing  girl  who  eagerly  gave  him  her  confidence  in 
one  moment  and  shrank  into  the  iciest  reticence  the 
next.  Her  unreserved  revelations  concerning  her  own 
father,  uttered  with  all  the  frankness  of  an  intimate, 
and  the  childish  ingenuousness  with  which  she  accounted 
for  her  raiment,  followed  so  closely,  so  abruptly  by  the 
most  insolent  display  of  bad  manners  he  had  ever 
known,  gave  him  ample  excuse  for  reflection,  and  if 
he  failed  to  obtain  the  full  benefit  of  Striker's  discourse 
it  was  because  he  had  no  power  to  command  his  addled 
thoughts.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  debating  within 
himself  the  advisability  of  asking  his  host  a  few  direct 
and  pointed  questions.  A  fine  regard  for  Striker's 
position  deterred  him, — and  to  this  regard  was  added 
the  conviction  that  his  host  would  probably  tell  him 
to  mind  his  own  business  and  not  go  prying  into  the 
affairs  of  others.  He  came  out  of  his  reverie  in  good 
time  to  avoid  injury  to  his  host's  feelings. 

"It  is  admirable,"  he  assured  him  promptly.     "Do 


64  VIOLA   GWYN 

you  cure  it  yourself  or  does  it  come  up  the  river  from 
Kentucky?" 

"Comes  from  Kentucky.  We  don't  have  much  luck 
tryin'  to  raise  terbaccer  in  these  parts.'* 

Whereupon  Mr.  Striker  went  into  a  long  and  intel 
ligent  lecture  upon  the  products  of  the  soil  in  that  sec 
tion  of  Indiana;  what  to  avoid  and  what  to  cultivate; 
how  to  buy  and  how  to  sell ;  the  traders  one  could  trust 
and  those  who  could  not  be  trusted  out  of  sight;  the 
short  corn  crop  of  the  year  before  and  the  way  he 
lost  half  a  dozen  as  fine  shoats  as  you'd  see  in  a  life 
time  on  account  of  wild  hogs  coming  out  of  the  woods 
and  enticin'  'em  off.  He  interrupted  himself  at  one 
stage  in  order  to  get  up  and  close  the  door  to  the 
kitchen.  Zachariah  was  snoring  lustily. 

"Whenever  you  feel  like  goin'  to  bed,  jist  say  so," 
he  said  at  last,  as  his  guest  drew  his  huge  old  silver 
watch  from  his  pocket  and  glanced  at  it. 

"I  have  been  doing  a  little  surmising,  Mr.  Striker," 
said  the  other.  "You  have  only  this  sitting-room  and 
one  bedroom.  The  ladies  are  occupying  the  latter.  My 
servant  has  gone  to  bed  in  the  kitchen.  I  am  wondering 
where  you  and  I  are  to  dispose  ourselves." 

"I  could  see  you  was  doin'  some  figgerin*,  friend. 
Well,  fer  that  matter,  so  was  I.  'Tain't  often  she 
comes  to  spend  the  night  here,  an'  when  she  does  me 
an*  Eliza  give  her  our  room  an*  bed  an'  we  pull  an  ex- 
try  straw  tick  out  here  in  the  room  an'  make  the  best 
of  it.  Now,  as  I  figger  it  out,  Eliza  is  usin'  that  straw 
tick  herself,  'cause  she  certainly  wouldn't  ever  dream 
of  gettin'  into  bed  with — with — er — her.  Not  but 
what  she's  clean  an'  all  that, — I  mean  Eliza, — but  you 
see,  she  used  to  be  a  hired  girl  once  upon  a  time,  an' — 
an' — well,  that  sort  of  makes  a — " 


SOMETHING    ABOUT    CLOTHES      65 

"My  fellow-guest  confided  to  me  a  little  while  ago 
that  she  too  had  been  a  hired  girl,  Mr.  Striker,  so  I 
don't  see—" 

"Did  she  tell  you  that?"  demanded  Phineas  sharply. 

"She  did,"  replied  Gwynne,  enjoying  his  host's  con 
sternation. 

"Well,  I'll  be  tee-totally  danged,"  exploded  the  set 
tler.  He  got  up  suddenly  and  turning  his  back  to  his 
guest,  knocked  the  burnt  tobacco  ffom  his  pipe  against 
the  stone  arch  of  the  fireplace.  "I  guess  I  better  rake 
the  ashes  over  these  here  coals,"  said  he,  "  'cause  if  I 
don't  an'  the  cabin  took  fire  an*  burnt  us  all  alive 
Eliza'd  never  git  done  jawin'  me  about  it."  Presently 
he  stood  off  and  critically  surveyed  his  work.  "I  guess 
that'll  fix  her  so's  she  won't  spit  any  sparks  out  here 
an'  set  fire  to  the  carpet.  As  I  was  sayin*,  I  reckon 
I'll  have  to  make  up  a  bed  here  in  front  of  the  fireplace 
fer  myself,  an'  let  you  go  up  to  the  attic.  We  got 
a—" 

"I  was  afraid  of  this,  Mr.  Striker.  You  are  putting 
yourselves  out  terribly  on  my  account.  I  can't  allow 
it,  sir.  It  is  too  much  to  ask — '* 

"Now,  don't  you  worry  about  us.  You  ain't  puttin' 
us  out  at  all.  One  night  last  winter, — the  coldest  night 
we  had, — Eliza  an'  me  slep'  on  the  kitchen  floor  with 
nary  a  blanket  er  quilt,  an'  I  had  to  git  up  every  half 
hour  to  put  wood  on  the  fire  so's  we  wouldn't  freeze 
to  death,  all  because  Joe  Wadley  an'  his  wife  an'  her 
father  an'  mother  an'  his  sister  with  her  three  children 
dropped  in  sort  of  unexpected  on  account  of  havin' 
their  two  wagons  git  stuck  in  a  snow  drift  a  mile  er 
so  from  here.  No,  sirree,  don't  you  worry.  There's 
a  spare  tick  up  in  the  attic  what  we  use  fer  strangers 
when  they  happen  along,  an'  Zachariah  has  put  your 


66  VIOLA   GWYN 

blankets  right  here  by  the  door, — an'  your  pistols,  too, 
I  see, — so  whenever  you're  ready,  I'll  lead  the  way  up 
the  ladder  an'  show  you  where  you're  to  roost.  There's 
a  little  winder  at  one  end,  so's  you  c'n  have  all  the  air 
you  want, — an*,  my  stars,  there's  a  lot  of  it  to-night, 
ain't  there?  Jist  listen  to  her  whistle.  Sounds  like 
winter.  She's  changed,  though,  an'  I  wouldn't  be  sur 
prised  if  we'd  find  the  moon  is  shinin'." 


CHAPTER  IV 

VIOLA    GWYN 

THEY  stepped  outside  the  cabin,  into  the  fresh, 
brisk  gale  that  was  blowing.  A  gibbous  moon 
hung  in  the  eastern  star-specked  sky.  Scurrying 
moonlit  clouds  off  in  the  west  sped  northward  on  the 
sweep  of  the  inconstant  wind,  which  had  shifted  within 
the  hour.  A  light  shone  dimly  through  the  square  little 
window  of  the  bedroom.  Kenneth's  imagination  pene 
trated  to  sacred  precincts  beyond  the  solid  logs:  he 
pictured  her  in  the  other  frock,  moving  gracefully  be 
fore  the  fascinated  eyes  of  the  settler's  wife,  proud  as 
a  peacock  and  yet  as  gay  as  the  lark. 

"Women  like  to  talk,"  observed  Striker,  with  a  side- 
long  glance  at  the  lighted  window.  He  led  the  way 
to  the  opposite  end  of  the  cabin  and  pointed  off  into 
the  night.  "Lafayette's  off  in  yan  direction.  There's 
a  big  stretch  of  open  prairie  in  between,  once  you  git 
out'n  these  woods,  an'  further  on  there's  more  timber. 
The  town's  down  in  a  sort  of  valley,  shaped  somethin' 
like  a  saucer,  with  hills  on  all  sides  an'  the  river  cut- 
tin'  straight  through  the  middle.  Considerable  buiMin' 
goin*  on  this  spring.  There's  talk  of  the  Baptists  an* 
the  Methodists  puttin'  up  new  churches  an'  havin'  reg 
ular  preachers  instead  of  the  circuit  riders.  But  you'll 
see  all  this  fer  yourself  when  you  git  there.  Plenty  of 
licker  to  be  had  at  Sol  Hamer's  grocery, — mostly  Mo- 
nonga-Durkee  whisky, — in  case  you  git  the  Wabash 
shakes  or  suddenly  feel  homesick." 

67 


68  VIOLA    GWYN 

"I  drink  very  little,"  said  Kenneth. 

"Well,  you'll  soon  git  over  that,"  prophesied  his  host. 
"Everybody  does.  A  spell  of  aguer  like  we  have  along 
the  river  every  fall  an'  winter  an'  spring  will  make 
you  mighty  thankful  fer  Sol  Hamer's  medicine,  an'  by 
the  time  summer  comes  you'll  be  able  to  stand  more'n 
you  ever  thought  you  could  stand.  What  worries  me 
is  how  the  women  manage  to  git  along  without  it.  You 
see  big  strong  men  goin'  around  shakin'  their  teeth  out 
an'  docterin'  day  an'  night  at  Sol's,  but  I'll  be  dog- 
goned  if  you  ever  see  a  woman  takin'  it.  Seems  as  if 
they'd  ruther  shake  theirselves  to  death  than  tetch  a 
drop  o'  whisky." 

"You  would  not  have  them  otherwise,  would  you?" 

"Why,  if  I  ever  caught  my  wife  takin'  a  swaller  o' 
whisky,  I'd — well,  by  gosh,  I  don't  know  what  I  would 
do.  First  place,  I'd  think  the  world  was  comin'  to  an 
end,  and  second  place,  I  guess  I'd  be  glad  it  was.  No, 
sirree,  I  don't  want  to  see  whisky  goin'  down  a  woman's 
gullet.  But  that  don't  explain  how  they  come  to  git 
along  without  it  when  they've  got  the  aguer.  They 
won't  even  take  it  when  a  rattlesnake  bites  'em.  Sooner 
die.  An'  in  spite  of  all  that,  they  bring  he-children  into 
the  world  that  can't  git  over  a  skeeter  bite  unless  they 
drink  a  pint  or  two  of  whisky.  Well,  I  guess  we  better 
go  to  roost,  Mr.  Gwynne.  Must  be  nine  o'clock.  Every 
thing's  all  right  out  at  the  barn  an'  the  chicken  coops. 
Wolves  an'  foxes  an*  weasels  visit  us  sometimes  at 
night,  but  I  got  things  fixed  so's  they  go  away  hungry. 
In  the  day  time,  Eliza's  got  an  ole  musket  o'  mine 
standin'  in  the  kitchen  to  skeer  the  hawks  away,  an'  I 
got  a  rifle  in  the  settin'  room  fer  whatever  varmint 
comes  along  at  night, — includin'  hoss-thieves  an'  setch- 
like." 


VIOLA    GWYN  69 

"Horse-thieves  ?" 

"Yep.  Why,  only  last  month  a  set  of  hoss-thieves 
from  down  the  river  went  through  the  Wea  plains  an* 
stole  sixteen  yearlin'  colts,  drove  'em  down  to  the  river, 
loaded  'em  on  a  flat-boat  an'  got  away  without  losin* 
a  hair.  Done  it  on  a  Sunday  night,  too." 

It  was  a  few  minutes  past  nine  when  Kenneth  followed 
his  host  up  the  ladder  and  through  the  trap-door  into 
the  stuffy  attic.  He  carried  his  rough  riding-boots, 
which  Zachariah  had  cleaned  and  greased  with  a  piece 
of  bacon-rind. 

"I'll  leave  the  ladder  here,"  said  Striker,  depositing 
the  candlestick  on  the  floor.  "So's  I  c'n  stick  my 
head  in  here  in  the  mornin'  an'  rouse  you  up.  There's 
your  straw-tick  over  yander,  an'  I'll  fotch  your  blan 
kets  up  in  a  minute  or  two.  I  reckon  you'll  have  to 
crawl  on  your  hands  an'  knees;  this  attic  wasn't  built 
fer  full-size  men." 

"I  will  be  all  right,"  his  guest  assured  him.  "Beg 
gars  cannot  be  choosers.  A  place  to  lay  my  head,  a 
roof  to  keep  the  rain  off,  and  a  generous  host — what 
more  can  the  wayfarer  ask?" 

The  clapboard  roof  was  a  scant  three  feet  above 
the  dusty  floor  of  the  attic.  Stooping,  the  young  man 
made  his  way  to  the  bed-tick  near  the  little  window. 
He  did  not  sniff  with  scorn  at  his  humble  surround 
ings.  He  had  travelled  long  and  far  and  he  had  slept 
in  worse  places  than  this.  He  was  drawing  off  his 
boots  when  Striker  again  stuck  his  head  and  shoulders 
through  the  opening  and  laid  his  roll  of  blankets  on 
the  floor. 

"Eliza  jist  stuck  her  head  out  to  tell  me  to  shut  this 
trap-door,  so's  my  snorin*  won't  keep  you  awake.  I 
fergot  all  about  my  snorin'.  Like  as  not  if  I  left  this 


70  VIOLA    GWYN 

door  open  the  whole  clanged  roof  would  be  lifted  right 
off'm  the  cabin  'fore  I'd  been  asleep  five  minutes.  Well, 
good  night.  I'll  call  you  in  the  mornin'  bright  an' 
early." 

The  trap-door  was  slowly  lowered  into  place  as  the 
shaggy  head  and  broad  shoulders  of  the  settler  dis 
appeared.  The  young  man  heard  the  scraping  of  the 
ladder  as  it  was  being  removed  to  a  place  against  the 
wall. 

He  pried  open  the  tight  little  window,  letting  a  draft 
of  fresh  air  rush  into  the  stifling  attic.  Then  he  sat 
on  the  edge  of  the  tick  for  a  few  minutes,  ruminating, 
his  gaze  fixed  thoughtfully  on  the  sputtering,  imper 
illed  candle.  Finally  he  shook  his  head,  sighed,  and  be 
gan  to  unstrap  his  roll  of  blankets.  He  had  decided 
to  remove  only  his  coat  and  waistcoat.  The  sharp,  stac 
cato  barking  of  a  fox  up  in  the  woods  fell  upon  his 
ears.  He  paused  to  listen.  Then  came  the  faraway, 
unmistakable  howl  of  a  wolf,  the  solemn,  familiar  hoot 
of  the  wilderness  owl  and  the  raucous  call  of  the  great 
night  heron.  But  there  was  no  sound  from  the  farm 
yard.  He  said  his  prayers — he  never  forgot  to  say 
the  prayer  his  mother  had  taught  him — blew  out  the 
candle,  pulled  the  blankets  up  to  his  chin,  and  was 
soon  fast  asleep. 

He  did  not  know  what  time  it  was  when  he  was  aroused 
by  the  barking  of  Striker's  dogs,  loud,  furious  barking 
and  ugly  growls,  signifying  the  presence  in  the  imme 
diate  neighbourhood  of  the  house  of  some  intruder,  man 
or  beast.  Shaking  off  the  sleep  that  held  him,  he  crept 
to  the  window  and  looked  out.  The  moon  was  gone 
and  the  stars  had  almost  faded  from  the  inky  black 
dome.  He  guessed  the  hour  with  the  acute  instinct 
of  one  to  whom  the  vagaries  of  night  have  become  fa- 


VIOLA    GWYN  71 

miliar  through  long  understanding.  It  would  now 
be  about  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  with  the  creep 
ing  dawn  an  hour  and  a  half  away. 

Suddenly  his  gaze  fell  upon  a  light  moving  among 
the  trees  some  distance  from  the  cabin.  It  appeared 
and  disappeared,  like  a  jack  o*  lantern,  but  always  it 
moved  southward,  obscured  every  few  feet  by  an  in 
tervening  trunk  or  a  clump  of  brush.  As  he  watched 
the  bobbing  light,  he  heard  some  one  stirring  in  the 
room  below.  Then  the  cabin  door  creaked  on  its  rusty 
hinges  and  almost  immediately  a  jumble  of  subdued 
hoarse  voices  came  up  to  him.  He  felt  for  his  pistols 
and  realized  with  something  of  a  shock  that  he  had 
left  them  in  the  kitchen  with  Zachariah.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  travels  he  had  neglected  to  place  them  be 
side  his  bed. 

The  dogs,  admonished  by  a  sharp  word  or  two,  ceased 
their  barking.  This  reassured  him,  for  they  would 
obey  no  one  except  Phineas  Striker.  Whoever  was  at 
the  cabin  door,  there  was  no  longer  any  question  in 
his  mind  as  to  the  peaceful  nature  of  the  visit.  He  crept 
over  to  the  trap-door  and  cautiously  attempted  to  lift 
it  an  inch  or  so,  the  better  to  hear  what  was  going  on, 
but  try  as  he  would  he  could  not  budge  the  covering. 
The  murmur  of  voices  went  on  for  a  few  minutes  longer, 
and  then  he  heard  the  soft,  light  pad  of  feet  on  the 
floor  below;  sibilant,  penetrating  whispers;  a  sup 
pressed  feminine  ejaculation  followed  by  the  low  laugh 
of  a  man,  a  laugh  that  might  well  have  been  described 
as  a  chuckle. 

For  a  long  time  he  lay  there  listening  to  the  con 
fused  sound  of  whispers,  the  stealthy  shuffling  of  feet, 
the  quiet  opening  and  closing  of  a  door,  and  then  there 
was  silence. 


{72  VIOLA    GWYN 

Several  minutes  passed.  He  stole  back  to  the  win- 
clow.  The  light  in  the  forest  had  vanished.  Just  as 
he  was  on  the  point  of  crawling  into  bed  again,  an 
other  sound  struck  his  ear:  the  unmistakable  rattle 
of  wagon  wheels  on  their  axles,  the  straining  of  harness, 
the  rasp  of  tug  chains, — quite  near  at  hand.  The 
clack-clack  of  the  hubs  gradually  diminished  as  the 
heavy  vehicle  made  its  slow,  tortuous  way  off  through 
the  ruts  and  mire  of  the  road.  Presently  the  front 
door  of  the  cabin  squealed  on  its  hinges,  the  latch 
snapped  and  the  bolt  fell  carefully  into  place. 

He  could  not  go  to  sleep  again.  His  brain  was 
awake  and  active,  filled  with  unanswered  questions,  be 
set  by  endless  speculation.  The  first  faint  sign  of 
dawn,  creeping  through  the  window,  found  him  watch 
ing  eagerly,  impatiently  for  its  appearance.  The  pres 
ence  of  a  wagon,  even  at  that  black  hour  of  the  night, 
while  perhaps  unusual,  was  readily  to  be  accounted 
for  in  more  ways  than  one,  none  of  them  possessing  a 
sinister  significance.  A  neighbouring  farmer  making  an 
early  start  for  town  stopping  to  carry  out  some  friendly 
commission  for  Phineas  Striker;  a  settler  calling  for 
assistance  in  the  case  of  illness  at  his  home;  hunters 
on  their  way  to  the  marshes  for  wild  ducks  and  geese; 
or  even  guardians  of  the  law  in  search  of  malefactors. 
But  the  mysterious  light  in  the  woods, — that  was  some 
thing  not  so  easily  to  be  explained. 

The  square  little  aperture  was  clearly  defined  against 
the  greying  sky  before  he  distinguished  signs  of  activ 
ity  in  the  room  below.  Striker  was  up  and  moving 
about.  He  could  hear  him  stacking  logs  in  the  fire 
place,  and  presently  there  came  up  to  him  the  welcome 
crackle  of  kindling-wood  ablaze.  A  door  opened  and 
a  gruff  voice  spoke.  The  settler  was  routing  Zachariah 


VIOLA   GWYN  73 

out  of  his  slumbers.  Far  off  in  some  unknown,  remote 
land  a  rooster  crowed, — the  day's  champion,  the  first 
of  all  to  greet  the  rising  sun.  Almost  instantly,  a 
cock  in  Striker's  barnyard  awoke  in  confusion  and  dis 
may,  and  sent  up  a  hurried,  raucous  cock-a-doodle-doo, 
— too  late  by  half  a  minute  to  claim  the  honours  of  the 
day,  but  still  a  valiant  challenger.  Then  other  chanti 
cleers,  big  and  little,  sounded  their  clarion  call, — and 
the  day  was  born. 

Kenneth,  despite  his  longing  for  this  very  hour  to 
come,  now  perversely  wished  to  sleep.  A  belated  but 
beatific  drowsiness  seized  him.  He  was  only  half-con 
scious  of  the  noise  that  attended  the  lifting  of  the  trap 
door. 

"Wake  up!  Time  to  git  up,"  a  distant  voice  was 
calling,  and  he  suddenly  opened  his  eyes  very  wide  and 
found  himself  staring  at  a  shaggy,  unkempt  head  stick 
ing  up  out  of  the  floor,  rendered  grim  and  terrifying 
by  the  fitful  play  of  a  ruddy  light  from  the  depths  be 
low.  For  a  second  he  was  bewildered. 

"That  you,  Striker?"  he  mumbled. 

"Yep, — it's  me.  Time  to  git  up.  Five  o'clock. 
Breakfass'll  soon  be  ready.  You  c'n  wash  up  out  at 
the  well.  Sleep  well?" 

"Passably.  I  was  awakened  some  time  in  the  night 
by  your  visitors." 

He  was  sitting  up  on  the  edge  of  the  tick,  drawing 
on  his  boots.  Striker  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"Thought  maybe  you'd  be  disturbed,  spite  of  all 
we  could  do  to  be  as  quiet  as  possible.  People  from  a 
farm  'tother  side  of  the  plains." 

The  head  disappeared,  and  in  a  very  few  minutes 
Gwynne,  carrying  his  coat  and  waistcoat,  descended  the 
ladder  into  the  presence  of  a  roaring  fire.  He  shot  a 


74  VIOLA   GWYN 

glance  at  the  closed  bedroom  door,  and  then  hastily 
made  his  way  out  of  the  cabin  and  around  to  the  well. 
Eliza  was  preparing  breakfast.  In  the  grey  half- 
light  he  made  out  Striker  and  Zachariah  moving  about 
the  barnlot.  A  rough  but  clean  towel  hung  across 
the  board  wall  of  the  well,  while  a  fresh  bucket  of  water 
stood  on  the  shelf  inside,  its  chain  hanging  limply  from 
the  towering  end  of  the  "h'isting  pole." 

As  he  completed  his  ablutions,  the  darkey  boy  ap 
proached. 

"Good  morning,  Zachariah,"  he  spluttered,  over  the 
edge  of  the  towel.  "Did  you  sleep  well?" 

"No,  suh,  Marse  Kenneth,  Ah  slep'  powerful  porely. 
Ah  don't  reckon  Ah  had  mah  eyes  close'  more'n  fifteen 
seconds  all  night  long,  suh." 

His  master  peered  at  him.  Zachariah's  eyes  were 
not  yet  thoroughly  open. 

"You  mean  you  did  not  have  them  open  more  than 
fifteen  seconds,  you  rascal.  Why,  you  were  asleep 
and  snoring  by  nine  o'clock." 

"Yas,  suh,  yas,  suh, — but  Ah  done  got  'em  wide  open 
ag*in  'side  o'  no  time.  Ah  jes'  couldn't  holp  worryin', 
Marse  Kenneth,  'bout  you  all.  Ah  sez  to  mahself,  ef 
Marse  Kenneth  he  ain'  got  no  fitten  place  to  lay  his 
weary  haid — " 

"Oh,  then  you  were  not  kept  awake  by  noises  or — 
by  the  by,  did  you  hear  any  noises?" 

"Noises?  No,  suh!  Dis  yere  cabin  hit  was  like  a 
grave.  Thass  what  kep'  me  awake,  mos'  likely.  Ah 
reckon  Ah  is  used  to  noises.  Ah  jes'  couldn't  go  to 
sleep  widdout  'em,  Marse  Kenneth.  W.uzzen't  even  a 
cricket  er  a — " 

His  master's  hearty  laugh  caused  him  to  cut  his 
speech  short.  A  wary  glance  out  of  the  corner  of  his 


VIOLA    GWYN  75 

eye  satisfied  him  that  it  was  now  time  to  change  the 
subject. 

"Done  fed  de  hosses,  suh,  an'  mos'  ready  to  packen 
up  fo'  de  juhney,  suh.  Yas,  suh!  Ev'thing  all  hunky- 
dory  jes'  soon  as  Marse  Kenneth  done  had  his  break- 
fuss.  Yas,  suh!  Yas,  suh!" 

They  ate  breakfast  by  candle-light,  Striker  and 
Eliza  and  Kenneth.  There  was  no  sign  of  the  beautiful 
and  exasperating  girl.  Phineas  was  strangely  glum  and 
preoccupied,  his  wife  too  busy  with  her  flap-jacks  to 
take  even  the  slightest  interest  in  the  desultory  con 
versation. 

"A  little  too  early  for  my  fellow-guest  to  be  up  and 
about,  I  see,"  ventured  Kenneth  at  last,  taking  the 
bull  by  the  horns.  His  curiosity  had  to  be  satisfied. 

Striker  did  not  look  up  from  his  plate.  "She's 
gone.  She  ain't  here." 

"Gone?" 

"Yep.     Left  jist  a  little  while  'fore  sun-up." 

"Her  ma  sent  for  her,"  volunteered  Eliza. 

"Sent  fer  her  to  come  in  a  hurry,"  added  Striker, 
trying  to  be  casual. 

"Then  it  was  she  who  went  away  in  the  wagon  last 
night,"  said  the  young  man,  a  note  of  disappointment 
in  his  voice. 

"Airly  this  mornin',"  corrected  his  host.  "Jist  half 
an  hour  or  so  'fore  sun-up." 

"I  trust  her  mother  is  not  ill." 

"No  tellin',"  was  Striker's  non-committal  response. 

It  was  quite  apparent  to  Kenneth  that  they  did  not 
wish  to  discuss  the  matter.  He  waited  a  few  moments 
before  remarking: 

"I  saw  a  light  moving  through  the  woods  above 
here, — a  lantern,  I  took  it  to  be, — just  after  I  was 


76  VIOLA   GWYN 

awakened  by  the  barking  of  the  dogs.  I  thought  at 
first  it  was  that  which  set  the  dogs  off  on  a  ram 
page." 

Striker  was  looking  at  him  intently  under  his  bushy 
eyebrows,  his  knife  poised  halfway  to  his  lips.  While 
he  could  not  see  Eliza,  who  was  at  the  stove  behind 
him,  he  was  struck  by  the  fact  that  there  was  a  brief, 
significant  suspension  of  activity  on  her  part;  the 
scrape  of  the  "turnover"  in  the  frying-pan  ceased 
abruptly. 

"A  lantern  up  in  the  woods?"  said  Striker  slowly, 
looking  past  Gwynne  at  Eliza. 

"A  light.     It  may  not  have  been  a  lantern." 

"Which  way  was  it  movin'?" 

"In  that  direction,"  indicating  the  south. 

The  turning  of  the  flap-jacks  in  the  pan  was  re 
sumed.  Striker  relaxed  a  little. 

"Hunters,  I  reckon,  goin'  down  stream  for  wild  duck 
and  geese  this  mornin*.  There's  a  heap  o'  ducks  an' 
geese  passin'  over — " 

"See  here,  Phineas,"  broke  in  his  wife  suddenly, 
"what's  the  sense  of  sayin*  that?  You  know  it  wasn't 
duck  hunters.  Nobody's  out  shooting  ducks  with  the 
river  as  high  as  it  is  down  this  way,  an*  Mr.  Gwynne 
knows  it,  if  he's  got  half  as  much  sense  as  I  think  he 
has." 

"When  I  heard  people  out  in  front  of  the  cabin 
shortly  afterward,  I  naturally  concluded  that  the  lan 
tern  belonged  to  them,"  remarked  the  young  man. 

"Well,  it  didn't,"  said  Striker,  laying  down  his  knife. 
"I  guess  it  won't  hurt  you  to  know  now  somethin*  that 
will  be  of  considerable  interest  to  you  later  on.  I  ain't 
betrayin'  nobody's  secret,  'cause  I  said  I  was  goin*  to 
tell  you  the  whole  story." 


VIOLA   GWYN  77 

"Don't  you  think  you'd  better  let  it  come  from  some 
body  else,  Phin?"  interposed  his  wife  nervously. 

"No,  I  don't,  Eliza.  'Cause  why?  'Cause  I  think 
he'd  ort  to  know.  Maybe  he'll  be  able  to  put  a  stop  to 
her  foolishness.  We  didn't  know  until  long  after  you 
went  to  bed  that  her  real  reason  fer  comin'  here  yester 
day  was  to  run  off  an'  get  married  to  Barry  Lapelle. 
She  didn't  tell  you  no  lies  about  her  clothes  an'  all 
that,  'cause  her  ma  had  put  her  foot  down  on  her  takin' 
off  black.  They  had  it  all  planned  out  beforehand,  her 
an'  this  Lapelle.  He  was  to  come  fer  her  some  time 
before  daybreak  with  a  couple  of  bosses  an'  they  was 
to  be  off  before  the  sun  was  up  on  their  way  to  Attica 
where  they  was  to  be  married,  an'  then  go  on  down  the 
river  to  his  home  in  Terry  Hut.  Me  an'  Eliza  set  up 
all  night  in  that  bedroom,  tryin'  to  coax  her  out  of  it. 
I  don't  like  this  Lapelle  feller.  He's  a  handsome  cuss, 
but  he's  as  wild  as  all  get  out, — drinks,  gambles,  an* 
all  setch.  Well,  to  make  a  long  story  short,  that  was 
prob'ly  him  up  yander  on  the  ole  Injin  trace,  with  his 
hosses,  waitin'  fer  the  time  to  come  when  they  could 
be  off.  Her  ma  must  have  found  out  about  their  plans, 
'cause  she  come  here  herself  with  two  of  her  hired  men 
an'  old  Cap'n  Scott,  a  friend  of  the  fam'ly,  an'  took 
her  daughter  right  out  from  under  Barry's  nose.  It 
was  them  you  heared  down  here  last  night.  I  will  say 
this  fer  the  girl,  she  kinder  made  up  her  mind  'long 
about  midnight  that  it  was  a  foolish  thing  to  do,  run- 
nin'  off  like  this  with  Barry,  an'  like  as  not  when  the 
time  come  she'd  have  backed  out." 

"She's  a  mighty  headstrong  girl,"  said  Eliza.  "Sot 
in  her  ways  an'  sp'iled  a  good  deal  by  goin'  to  school 
down  to  St.  Louis." 

"Her  mother  don't  want  her  to  marry  Lapelle.    She's 


78  VIOLA    GWYN 

dead  sot  ag'inst  it.  It's  a  mighty  funny  way  fer  the 
girl  to  act,  when  she's  so  fond  of  her  mother.  I  can't 
understand  it  in  her.  All  the  more  reason  fer  her  to 
stick  to  her  mother  when  it's  a  fact  that  the  old  woman 
ain't  got  what  you'd  call  a  friend  in  the  whole  deestrict. 
She's  a  queer  sort  of  woman, — close  an'  stingy  as  all 
get  out,  an'  as  hard  as  a  hickory  log.  Never  been  seen 
at  a  church  meetin'.  She  makes  her  daughter  go  when 
ever  there's  a  meetin',  but  as  fer  herself, — no,  sirree. 
'Course,  I  understand  why  she's  so  sot  ag'inst  Barry. 
She's  purty  well  off  an'  the  girl  will  be  rich  some  day." 

"Shucks  !'*  exclaimed  Eliza.  "Barry  Lapelle's  after 
her  'cause  she's  the  purtiest  girl  him  or  anybody  else 
has  ever  seen.  He  ain't  the  only  man  that's  in  love 
with  her.  They  all  are, — clear  from  Lafayette  to 
Terry  Hut,  an'  maybe  beyond.  Don't  you  tell  me  it's 
her  money  he's  after,  Phin  Striker.  He's  after  her. 
He's  got  plenty  of  money  himself,  so  they  say,  so 
why—" 

"I  ain't  so  sure  about  that,"  broke  in  her  husband. 
"There's  a  lot  of  talk  about  him  gamblin'  away  most 
everything  his  father  left  him.  Lost  one  of  his  boats 
last  winter  in  a  poker  game  up  at  Lafayette,  an'  had 
to  borrer  money  on  some  land  he's  got  down  the  river 
to  git  it  back.  The  packet  Paul  Revere  it  was.  Used 
to  run  on  the  Mississippi.  I  guess  she  kinder  lost  her 
head  over  him,"  he  went  on  musingly.  "He's  an  awful 
feller  with  women,  so  good-lookin'  an'  all,  an'  so  dif 
ferent  from  the  farm  boys  aroun'  here.  Allus  got  good 
clothes  on,  an'  they  say  he  has  fit  a  couple  of  duels 
down  the  river.  Somehow  that  allus  appeals  to  young 
girls.  But  I  can't  understand  it  in  her.  She's  setch 
a  level-headed  girl, — but,  then,  I  guess  they're  all  alike 


VIOLA    GWYN  79 

when  a  good-lookin'  man  comes  along.  Look  at  Eliza 
here.  The  minute  she  sot  eyes  on  me  she — " 

"I  didn't  marry  you,  Phin  Striker,  because  you  was 
purty,  let  me  tell  you  that,"  exclaimed  Eliza,  wither- 
ingly. 

Gwynne,  who  had  been  listening  to  all  this  with  a 
queer  sinking  of  the  heart,  interrupted  what  promised 
to  develop  into  an  acrimonious  wrangle  over  pre-con- 
nubial  impressions.  He  was  decidedly  upset  by  the 
revelations;  a  vague  dream,  barely  begun,  came  to  a 
sharp  and  disagreeable  end. 

"She  actually  had  planned  to  run  away  with  this 
man  Lapelle?"  he  exclaimed,  frowning.  "It  was  all 
arranged  ?" 

"So  I  take  it,"  said  Striker.  "She  brought  some  of 
her  personal  trinkets  with  her,  but  Eliza  never  suspected 
anything  queer  about  that." 

"The  fellow  must  be  an  arrant  scoundrel,"  declared 
the  young  man  angrily.  "No  gentleman  would  subject 
an  innocent  girl  to  such — " 

"All's  well  that  ends  well,  as  the  feller  says,"  inter 
rupted  Striker,  arising  from  the  table.  "At  least  fer 
the  present.  She  seemed  sort  of  willin'  to  go  home  with 
her  ma,  so  I  guess  her  heart  ain't  everlastingly  busted. 
I  thought  it  was  best  to  tell  you  all  this,  Mr.  Gwynne, 
'cause  I  got  a  sneakin'  idee  you're  goin*  to  see  a  lot 
of  that  girl,  an'  maybe  you'll  turn  out  to  be  a  source 
of  help  in  time  o'  trouble  to  her." 

"I  fail  to  understand  just  what  you  mean,  Striker. 
She  is  an  absolute  stranger  to  me." 

"Well,  we'll  see  what  we  shall  see,"  said  Striker, 
cryptically.  He  opened  the  kitchen  door  and  called 
to  Zachariah  to  hurry  in  and  get  his  breakfast. 


80  VIOLA    GWYN 

Half  an  "hour  later  Kenneth  and  his  servant  mounted 
their  horses  in  the  barnyard  and  prepared  to  depart. 
The  sun  was  shining  and  there  was  a  taste  and  tang  of 
spring  in  the  breeze  that  flouted  the  faces  of  the  horse 
men. 

"Follow  this  road  back  to  the  crossin'  an*  turn  to 
your  left,"  directed  Striker,  "an'  'fore  you  know  it 
you'll  be  in  Lay-flat,  as  they  call  it  down  in  Crawfords- 
ville.  Remember,  you're  allus  most  welcome  here.  I 
reckon  we'll  see  somethin'  of  each  other  as  time  goes 
on.  It  ain't  difficult  fer  honest  men  to  be  friends  as 
well  as  neighbours  in  this  part  of  the  world.  I'm  glad 
you  happened  my  way  last  night." 

He  walked  alongside  Gwynne's  stirrup  as  they  moved 
down  toward  the  road. 

"Some  day,"  said  the  young  man,  "I  should  like  to 
have  a  long  talk  with  you  about  my  father.  You  knew 
him  well  and  I — by  the  way,  your  love-lorn  friend  knew 
him  also." 

The  other  was  silent  for  half  a  dozen  paces,  looking 
straight  ahead, 

"Yes,"  said  he,  with  curious  deliberation.  "She  was 
sayin'  as  how  she  told  you  a  lot  about  him  last  night, — 
what  sort  of  a  man  he  was,  an*  all  that." 

"She  told  me  nothing  that — " 

"Jist  a  minute,  Mr.  Gwynne,"  said  Striker,  laying 
his  hand  on  the  rider's  knee.  Kenneth  drew  rein.  "I 
guess  maybe  you  didn't  know  who  she  was  talkin'  about 
at  the  time,  but  it  was  your  father  she  was  describin'. 
We  all  three  knowed  somethin*  that  you  didn't  know, 
an'  it's  only  fair  fer  me  to  tell  you  the  truth,  now  that 
she's  out  of  the  way.  That  girl  was  Viola  Gwyn,  an' 
she's  your  half-sister." 


CHAPTER  V 

DEFLECTIONS    AND    AN    ENCOUNTER 

THE  sun  was  barely  above  the  eastward  wall  of 
trees  when  Kenneth  and  his  man  rode  away  from 
the  home  of  Phineas  Striker.  Their  progress 
was  slow  and  arduous,  for  the  black  mud  was  well  up 
to  the  fetlocks  of  the  horses  in  this  new  road  across 
the  boggy  clearing.  He  rode  ahead,  as  was  the  cus 
tom,  followed  a  short  distance  behind  by  his  servant 
on  the  strong,  well-laden  pack-horse. 

The  master  was  in  a  thoughtful,  troubled  mood.  He 
paid  little  attention  to  the  glories  of  the  fresh  spring 
day.  What  he  had  just  heard  from  the  lips  of  the 
settler  disturbed  him  greatly.  That  beautiful  girl  his 
half-sister !  The  child  of  his  own  father  and  the  hated 
Rachel  Carter !  Rachel  Carter,  the  woman  he  had  been 
brought  up  to  despise,  the  harlot  who  had  stolen  his 
father  away,  the  scarlet  wanton  at  whose  door  the 
death  of  his  mother  was  laid !  That  evil  woman,  Rachel 
Carter! 

Could  she,  this  foulest  of  thieves,  be  the  mother  of 
so  lovely,  so  sensitive,  so  perfect  a  creature  as  Viola 
Gwyn? 

As  he  rode  frowningly  along,  oblivious  to  the  low 
chant  of  the  darkey  and  the  song  of  the  first  spring 
warblers,  he  revisualized  the  woman  he  had  known  in 
his  earliest  childhood.  Strangely  enough,  the  face  of 

Rachel  Carter  had  always  remained  more  firmly,  more 

81 


82  VIOLA    GWYN 

indelibly  impressed  upon  his  memory  than  that  of  his 
own  mother. 

This  queer,  unusual  circumstance  may  be  easily, 
reasonably  accounted  for:  his  grandfather's  dogged, 
almost  daily  lessons  in  hate.  He  was  not  allowed  to 
forget  Rachel  Carter, — nojt  for  one  instant.  Always 
she  was  kept  before  him  by  that  bitter,  vindictive  old 
man  who  was  his  mother's  father, — even  up  to  the  day 
that  he  lay  on  his  deathbed.  Small  wonder,  then,  that 
his  own  mother's  face  had  faded  from  his  memory  while 
that  of  Rachel  Carter  remained  clear  and  vivid,  as  he 
had  known  it  now  for  twenty  years.  The  passing  years 
might  perforce  bring  about  changes  in  the  face  and 
figure  of  Rachel  Carter,  but  they  could  not,  even  in 
the  smallest  detail,  alter  the  picture  his  mind's  eye 
had  carried  so  long  and  faithfully.  He  could  think 
of  her  only  as  she  was  when  he  last  saw  her,  twenty 
years  ago:  tall  and  straight,  with  laughing  eyes  and 
white  teeth,  and  the  colour  of  tan-bark  in  her  cheeks. 

Then  there  had  been  little  Minda, — tiny  Minda  who 
existed  vaguely  as  a  name,  nothing  more.  He  had  a 
dim  recollection  of  .hearing  his  elders  say  that  the  babe 
with  the  yellow  curls  had  been  drowned  when  a  boat 
turned  over  far  away  in  the  big  brown  river.  Some 
one  had  come  to  his  grandfather's  house  with  the  news. 
He  recalled  hearing  the  talk  about  the  accident,  and 
his  grandfather  lifting  his  fist  toward  the  sky  and 
actually  blaming  God  for  something!  He  never  forgot 
that.  His  grandfather  had  blamed  God ! 

He  had  thought  of  asking  Striker  about  his  father's 
widow,  after  hearing  the  truth  about  Viola,  but  a  stub 
born  pride  prevented.  It  had  been  on  his  tongue  to 
inquire  when  and  where  Robert  Gwynne  and  Rachel 
Carter  were  married, — he  did  not  doubt  that  they  had 


REFLECTIONS  83 

been  legally  married, — but  he  realized  in  time  that  in 
all  probability  the  settler,  as  well  as  every  one  else  in 
the  community,  was  totally  uninformed  as  to  the  past 
life  of  Robert  and  Rachel  Gwynne.  Besides,  the  query 
would  reveal  an  ignorance  on  his  part  that  he  was  loath 
to  expose  to  speculation. 

Striker  had  explained  the  somewhat  distasteful  scru 
tiny  to  which  he  had  been  subjected  the  night  before. 
All  three  of  them,  knowing  him  to  be  Viola's  blood  re 
lation,  were  studying  his  features  with  interest,  seek 
ing  for  a  trace  of  family  resemblance,  not  alone  to  his 
father  but  to  the  girl  herself.  This  had  set  him  think 
ing.  There  was  not,  so  far  as  he  could  determine,  the 
slightest  likeness  between  him  and  his  beautiful  half- 
sister;  there  was  absolutely  nothing  to  indicate  that 
their  sire  was  one  and  the  same  man. 

Pondering,  he  now  understood  what  Striker  meant 
in  declaring  that  he  ought  to  know  the  truth  about  the 
frustrated  elopement.  Even  though  the  honest  settler 
was  aware  of  the  strained  relations  existing  between 
the  widow  and  her  husband's  son  by  a  former  wife, — 
(the  deceased  in  his  will  had  declared  in  so  many  words 
that  he  owed  more  than  mere  reparation  to  the  neg 
lected  but  unforgotten  son  born  to  him  and  his  be 
loved  but  long  dead  wife,  Laura  Gwynne), — even  though 
Striker  knew  all  this,  it  was  evident  thai  he  looked  upon 
this  son  as  the  natural  protector  of  the  wilful  girl,  not 
withstanding  the  feud  between  step-mother  and  step 
son. 

And  Kenneth,  as  he  rode  away,  felt  a  new  weight  of 
responsibility  as  unwelcome  to  him  as  it  was  certain  to 
be  to  Viola;  for,  when  all  was  said  and  done,  she  was 
her  mother's  daughter  and  as  such  doubtless  looked  upon 
him  through  the  mother's  eyes,  seeing  a  common  enemy. 


84  VIOLA    GWYN 

Still,  she  was  his  half-sister,  and  whether  he  liked  it 
or  not  he  was  morally  bound  to  stand  between  her  and 
disaster, — and  if  Striker  was  right,  marriage  with  the 
wild  Lapelle  spelled  disaster  of  the  worst  kind.  He 
had  only  to  recall,  however,  the  unaccountable  look  of 
hostility  with  which  she  had  favoured  him  more  than 
once  during  the  evening  to  realize  that  he  was  not 
likely  to  be  called  upon  for  either  advice  or  protection. 

He  mused  aloud,  with  the  shrug  of  a  philosopher: 
"Heigh-ho !  I  fear  me  I  shall  have  small  say  as  to  the 
conduct  of  this  newly  found  relation.  The  only  tie  that 
bound  us  is  gone.  She  is  not  only  the  child  of  my 
father,  whom  she  feared  and  perhaps  hated,  but  of 
mine  enemy,  whom  she  loves, — so  the  case  is  clear. 
There  is  a  wall  between  us,  and  I  shall  not  attempt  to 
surmount  it.  What  a  demnition  mess  it  has  turned 
out  to  be.  I  came  prepared  to  find  only  the  creature 
I  have  scorned  and  despised,  and  I  discover  that  I  have 
a  sister  so  beautiful  that,  not  knowing  her  at  all,  my 
eyes  are  dazzled  and  my  heart  goes  to  thumping  like 
any  silly  school  boy's.  Aye,  'tis  a  very  sorry  pass. 
Were  it  not  so  demned  upsetting,  it  would  be  amusing. 
Fate  never  played  a  wilder  prank.  What,  ho,  Zach- 
ariah!  Where  are  we  now?  Whose  farm  is  that  upon 
the  ridge?" 

Zachariah,  urging  his  horse  forward,  consulted  his 
memory.  Striker  had  mentioned  the  farms  they  were 
to  pass  en  route,  and  the  features  by  which  they  were 
to  be  identified.  Far  away  on  a  rise  in  the  sweep  of 
prairie-land  stood  a  lonely  cabin,  with  a  clump  of 
trees  behind  it. 

<cWell,  Marse  Kenneth,  ef  hit  ain'  de  Sherry  place 
hit  shorely  am  de  Sheridan  place,  an*  ef  hit  ain't  nuther 
one  o'  dem  hit  mus'  belong  to  Marse  Dimmit  er — " 


REFLECTIONS  85 

"It  is  neither  of  these,  you  rascal.  We  are  to  the 
north  of  them,  if  I  remember  our  directions  rightly. 
Mr.  Hollingsworth  and  the  Risers  live  hereabouts,  ac 
cording  to  Phineas  Striker.  A  house  with  a  clump  of 
trees, — it  is  Mr.  Huff's  farm.  Soon  we  will  come  to 
the  Martin  and  Talbot  places,  and  then  the  land  that 
is  mine,  Zachariah.  It  lies  for  the  most  part  on  this 
side  of  the  Crawfordsville  road." 

"Is  yo'  gwine  to  stop  dere,  Marse  Kenneth?" 
"No.  I  shall  ride  out  from  town  some  day  soon  to 
look  the  place  over,"  said  his  master  with  a  pardon 
able  lordliness  of  mien,  becoming  to  a  landed  gentle 
man.  "Our  affairs  at  present  lie  in  the  town,  for  there 
is  much  to  be  settled  before  I  take  charge.  Striker 
tells  me  the  man  who  is  farming  the  place  is  an  able, 
honest  fellow.  I  shall  not  disturb  him.  From  what 
he  says,  my  property  is  more  desirable  in  every  way 
than  the  land  that  fell  to  my  father's  widow.  Her 
farm  lies  off  to  our  left,  it  seems,  and  reaches  almost 
to  the  bottomlands  of  the  river.  We,  Zachariah,  are 
out  here  in  the  fertile  prairie  land.  Our  west  line  ex 
tends  along  the  full  length  of  her  property.  So,  you 
see,  the  only  thing  that  separates  the  two  farms  is  an 
imaginary  line  no  wider  than  your  little  finger,  drawn 
by  a  surveyor  and  established  by  law.  You  will  ob 
serve,  my  faithful  fellow, — assuming  that  you  are  a 
faithful  fellow, — that  as  we  draw  farther  away  from 
the  woods  along  the  river,  the  road  becomes  firmer,  the 
soil  less  soggy,  the —  If  you  will  cast  your  worthless 
eye  about  you,  instead  of  at  these  mud-puddles,  you 
will  also  observe  the  vast  fields  of  stubble,  the  immense 
stretches  of  corn  stalks  and  the  signs  of  spring  plough 
ing  on  all  sides.  Truly  'tis  a  wonderful  country.  See 
yon  pasture,  Zachariah,  with  the  cows  and  calves, — a 


86  VIOLA   GWYN 

good  score  of  them.  And  have  you,  by  the  way,  noticed 
what  a  glorious  day  it  is?  This  is  lifel" 

"Yas,  suh,  Marse  Kenneth,  Ah  done  notice  dat,  an' 
Ah  done  notice  somefin  ailse.  Ah  done  notice  dem  buz 
zards  flyin*  low  over  yan  way.  Dat  means  death,  Marse 
Kenneth,  Somefin  sho'  am  daid  over  yan  way." 

"You  are  a  melancholy  croaker,  Zachariah.  You 
see  naught  but  the  buzzards,  when  all  about  you  are 
the  newly  come  birds  of  spring,  the  bluebird,  the  robin, 
and  the  thrush.  Soon  the  meadow  lark  will  be  in  the 
fields,  and  the  young  quail  and  the  prairie-hen." 

"Yas,  suh,"  agreed  Zachariah,  brightening,  "an*  de 
yaller-hammer  an*  de  blue-jay  an*  de — an*  de  rattle 
snake,"  he  concluded,  with  a  roving,  uneasy  look  along 
the  roadside. 

"Do  not  forget  the  saucy  parroquets  we  saw  yester 
day  as  we  came  through  the  forest.  You  went  so  far 
in  your  excitement  over  those  little  green  and  golden 
birds,  with  their  scarlet  heads,  that  you  declared  they 
reminded  you  of  the  Garden  of  Eden.  Look  about  you, 
Zachariah.  Here  is  the  Garden  of  Eden,  right  at  your 
feet.  Do  you  see  those  plum  trees  over  yonder?  Well, 
sir,  old  Adam  and  Eve  used  to  sit  under  those  very 
trees  during  the  middle  of  the  day,  resting  themselves 
in  the  shade.  And  right  over  there  behind  that  big 
rock  is  where  the  serpent  had  his  nest.  He  gave  Eve 
a  plum  instead  of  an  apple,  because  Eve  was  especially 
fond  of  plums  and  did  not  care  at  all  for  apples. 
She—'* 

"  'Scuse  me,  Marse  Kenneth,  but  dem  is  hawthorn 
trees,"  said  Zachariah,  grinning. 

"So  they  are,  so  they  are.  Now  that  I  come  to  think 
of  it,  it  was  the  red-haw  that  Eve  fancied  more  than 
any  other  fruit  in  the  garden." 


REFLECTIONS  87 

"Yas,  suh, — an'  ole  Adam  he  was  powerful  fond  ob 
snappin'-turtles  fo'  breakfas',"  said  Zachariah,  point 
ing  to  a  tortoise  creeping  slowly  along  the  ditch.  "An* 
lil  Cain  an'  Abel, — my  Ian',  how  dem  chillum  used  to 
gobble  up  de  mud  pies  ole  Mammy  Eve  used  to  make 
right  out  ob  dish  yere  road  we's  ridin*  on." 

And  so,  in  this  sportive  mood,  master  and  man, 
warmed  by  the  golden  sun  and  cheered  by  the  spring 
wind  of  an  April  morn,  traversed  this  new-found  realm 
of  Cerus,  forded  the  turbulent,  swollen  creek  that  later 
on  ran  through  the  heart  of  the  Gwynne  acres,  and 
came  at  length  to  the  main  road  leading  into  the 
town. 

They  passed  log  cabins  and  here  and  there  preten 
tious  frame  houses  standing  back  from  the  road  in  the 
shelter  of  oak  and  locust  groves.  Their  passing  was 
watched  by  curious  women  and  children  in  dooryards 
and  porches,  while  from  the  fields  men  waved  greeting 
and  farewell  with  the  single  sweep  of  a  hat.  On  every 
barn  door  the  pelts  of  foxes  and  raccoons  were  stretched 
and  nailed. 

Presently  they  drew  near  to  a  lane  reaching  off  to 
the  west,  and  apparently  ending  in  a  wooded  knoll, 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  away, 

"There,"  said  Kenneth,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand,  "is 
where  I  shall  some  day  erect  a  mansion,  Zachariah,  that 
will  be  the  wonder  and  the  envy  of  all  the  people  in 
the  country.  For.  unless  I  am  mistaken,  that  is  the 
grove  of  oaks  that  Striker  mentioned.  Behold,  Zach 
ariah, — all  that  is  mine.  Four  hundred  acres  of  as 
fine  farm-land  as  there  is  in  all  the  world,  and  timber 
unparalleled.  Yes,  I  am  right.  There  is  the  house 
that  Striker  described,  the  place  where  my  father  lived 
when  he  first  came  to  the  Wea.  Egad,  'tis  not  a  regal 


88  VIOLA   GWYN 

palace,  is  it,  Zachariah?  The  most  imposing  thing 
about  it  is  the  chimney." 

They  were  gazing  at  a  cabin  that  squatted  meekly 
over  against  the  wall  of  oaks.  Its  roof  was  barely 
visible  above  the  surrounding  stockade,  while  the  barn 
and  styes  and  sheds  were  hidden  entirely  beyond  the 
slope.  It  was,  in  truth,  the  most  primitive  and  insig 
nificant  house  they  had  seen  that  day. 

"He  was  one  of  the  first  to  build  in  this  virgin 
waste,**  mused  the  young  man  aloud.  "Rough  and  par 
lous  were  the  days  when  he  came  to  this  land,  Zach 
ariah.  There  was  no  town  of  Lafayette,  no  neighbours 
save  the  rude,  uncultured  trappers.  Now  see  how  the 
times  have  changed.  And,  mark  my  guess,  Zachariah, 
there  will  be  still  greater  changes  before  we  are  laid 
away.  There  will  be  cities  and —  Ha !  Look,  Zacha 
riah, — to  the  right  of  the  grove.  It  is  all  as  Striker 
said.  There  is  the  other  house, — two  miles  or  more  to 
the  westward.  That  is  her  house.  It  is  new,  scarce  two 
years  old,  built  of  lumber  instead  of  logs,  and  quite 
spacious.  There  are,  he  tells  me,  two  stories,  contain 
ing  four  rooms,  with  a  kitchen  off  the  back,  a  smoke 
house  and  a  granary  besides  the  barn, — yes,  I  see  them 
all,  just  as  he  said  we  should  see  them  after  we  rounded 
the  grove." 

He  drew  rein  and  gazed  at  the  distant  house,  set  on 
a  ridge  and  backed  by  the  seemingly  endless  forest  that 
stretched  off  to  the  north  and  south.  His  face  clouded, 
his  jaw  was  set,  and  his  eyes  were  hard. 

"Yes,  that  would  be  Rachel  Carter's  house,"  he  con 
tinued,  harshly.  "Her  land  and  my  land  lying  side  by 
side,  with  only  a  fence  between.  Her  grain  and  my 
grain  growing  out  of  the  same  soil.  What  an  unholy 
trick  for  fate  to  play.  Perhaps  she  is  over  there,  even 


REFLECTIONS  89 

now.  She  and  Viola.  It  is  not  likely  that  they  would 
have  started  for  town  at  an  earlier  hour  than  this.  And 
to  think  of  the  damnable  situation  I  shall  find  in  town. 
She  will  be  my  neighbour, — just  as  she  was  twenty 
years  ago.  We  shall  live  within  speaking  distance  of 
each  other,  we  shall  see  each  other  perhaps  a  dozen 
times  a  day,  and  yet  we  may  neither  speak  nor  see. 
Egad,  I  wonder  what  I'll  do  if  she  even  attempts  to  ad 
dress  me !  Heigh-ho !  'Tis  the  mischief  of  Satan  him 
self.  Come,  Zachariah, — you  lazy  rascal  f  As  if  you 
had  not  slept  soundly  all  night  long,  you  must  now 
fall  asleep  sitting  bolt  upright  in  the  saddle." 

And  so  on  they  rode  again,  at  times  breaking  into  a 
smart  canter  where  the  road  was  solid,  but  for  the 
most  part  proceeding  with  irksome  slowness  through 
the  evil  slough.  Ahead  lay  the  dense  wood  they  were 
to  traverse  before  coming  to  the  town.  Soon  the  broad, 
open  prairie  would  be  behind  them,  they  would  be 
plunged  into  the  depths  of  a  forest  primeval,  wending 
their  way  through  five  miles  of  solitude  to  the  rim  of 
the  vale  in  which  the  town  was  situated.  But  the  forest 
had  no  terrors  for  them.  They  were  accustomed  to  the 
long  silences,  the  sombre  shades,  the  seemingly  endless 
stretches  of  wildwood  wherein  no  mortal  dwelt.  They 
had  come  from  afar  and  they  were  young,  and  hardy, 
and  fearless.  Beyond  that  wide  wall  of  trees  lay  jour 
ney's  end;  a  new  life  awaited  them  on  the  other  side  of 
the  barrier  forest. 

Suddenly  Zachariah  called  his  master's  attention  to 
a  horseman  who  rode  swiftly,  even  recklessly  across  the 
fields  to  their  left  and  well  ahead  of  them.  They  watched 
the  rider  with  interest,  struck  by  the  furious  pace  he 
was  holding,  regardless  of  consequences  either  to  him 
self  or  his  steed. 


'90  VIOLA    GWYN 

"Musr  be  somebody  pow'ful  sick,  Marse  Kenneth,  fo* 
dat  man  to  be  ridin'  so  fas',"  remarked  Zachariah. 

"Going  for  a  doctor,  I  sup —  Begad,  he  must  have 
come  from  Rachel  Carter's  farm!  There  is  no  other 
house  in  sight  over  in  that  direction.  I  wonder  if — " 
He  did  not  complete  the  sentence,  but  frowned  anxiously 
as  he  looked  over  his  shoulder  at  the  distant  house. 

Judging  by  the  manner  and  the  direction  in  which  he 
was  galloping,  the  rider  would  reach  the  main  road  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  ahead  of  them,  about  at  the  point 
where  it  entered  the  wood.  Kenneth  now  made  out  an 
unfenced  wagon-road  through  the  field,  evidently  a 
short-cut  from  Rachel  Carter's  farm  to  the  highway. 
He  permitted  himself  a  faint,  sardonic  smile.  This, 
then,  was  to  be  her  means  of  reaching  the  highway  rather 
than  to  use  the  lane  that  ran  past  his  house  and  no 
doubt  crossed  a  section  of  his  farm. 

Sure  enough  the  horseman  turned  into  the  road  some 
distance  ahead  of  them  and  rode  straight  for  the  forest. 
Then,  for  the  first  time,  Gwynne  observed  a  second  rider, 
motionless  at  the  roadside,  and  in  the  shadow  of  the 
towering,  leafless  trees  that  marked  the  portal  through 
which  they  must  enter  the  forest.  The  flying  horseman 
slowed  down  as  he  neared  this  solitary  figure,  coming  to 
a  standstill  when  he  reached  his  side.  A  moment  later, 
both  riders  were  cantering  toward  the  wood,  apparently 
in  excited,  earnest  conversation.  A  few  rods  farther 
on,  both  turned  to  look  over  their  shoulders  at  the  slow- 
moving  travellers.  Then  they  stopped,  wheeled  about, 
and  stood  still,  awaiting  their  approach. 

Kenneth  experienced  a  poignant  thrill  of  apprehen 
sion.  What  was  he  to  expect:  a  friendly  or  a  sangui 
nary  encounter?  He  slipped  his  right  hand  into  the 
saddle  pocket  and  drew  forth  a  pistol  which  he  shoved 


REFLECTIONS  91 

hastily  inside  his  waistcoat,  covering  the  stock  with 
the  folds  of  his  cape. 

"Keep  a  little  way  behind  me,"  he  said  to  his  servant, 
a  trace  of  excitement  in  his  voice. 

"Yas,  suh,"  said  Zachariah,  with  more  alacrity  than 
valour,  the  whites  of  his  eyes  betraying  something  more 
than  a  readiness  to  obey  this  conservative  order.  It 
was  a  foregone  conclusion  that  Zachariah  would  turn 
tail  and  flee  the  instant  there  was  a  sign  of  danger. 
"Slave  hunters,  Marse  Kenneth,  dat's  what  dey  is,"  he 
announced  with  conviction.  "Ah  c'n  smell  'em  five 
miles  away.  Yas,  suh, — dey's  gwine  a*  make  trouble 
fo'  you,  Marse  Kenneth,  sho*  as  you  is — "  But  by 
this  time  he  had  dropped  so  far  behind  that  his  opinions 
were  valueless. 

When  not  more  than  fifty  yards  separated  the  two 
parties,  one  of  the  men,  with  a  word  and  an  imperative 
jerk  of  the  head  to  his  companion,  advanced  slowly  to 
meet  Kenneth.  This  man  was  the  one  who  had  waited 
for  the  other  at  the  edge  of  the  wood. 

Gwynne  beheld  a  tall,  strongly  built  young  man  who 
rode  his  horse  with  the  matchless  grace  of  an  Indian. 
Although  his  companion  was  roughly  dressed  and  wore 
a  coon-skin  cap,  this  man  was  unmistakably  a  dandy. 
His  high  beaver  hat  observed  a  jaunty,  rakish  tilt; 
his  brass-buttoned  coat  was  the  colour  of  wine  and  of 
the  latest  fashion,  while  his  snug  fitting  pantaloons 
were  the  shade  of  the  mouse.  He  wore  no  cumbersome 
cape,  but  fashioned  about  his  neck  and  shoulders  was 
a  broad,  sloping  collar  of  mink.  There  were  silver 
spurs  on  his  stout  riding  boots,  and  the  wide  cuffs  of 
his  gauntlets  were  embroidered  in  silver. 

He  was  a  handsome  fellow  of  the  type  described  as 
dashing.  Dark  gleaming  eyes  peered  out  beneath  thick 


92  VIOLA    GWYN 

black  eyebrows  which  met  in  an  unbroken  line  above 
his  nose.  Set  in  a  face  of  unusual  pallor,  they  were  no 
doubt  rendered  superlatively  brilliant  by  contrast.  His 
skin  was  singularly  white  above  the  bluish,  freshly 
shaven  cheeks  and  chin.  His  hair  was  black  and  long 
and  curling.  The  thin  lips,  set  and  unsmiling,  were 
nevertheless  drawn  up  slightly  at  one  corner  of  the 
mouth  in  what  appeared  to  be  a  permanent  stamp  of 
superiority  and  disdain, — or  even  contempt.  Alto 
gether,  a  most  striking  face,  thought  Gwynne, — and 
the  man  himself  a  person  of  importance.  The  very 
manner  in  which  he  jerked  his  head  to  his  companion 
was  proof  enough  of  that. 

"Good  morning,"  said  this  lordly  gentleman,  bring 
ing  his  horse  to  a  standstill  and  raising  his  "gad"  to 
the  brim  of  his  hat  in  a  graceful  salute. 

Gwynne  drew  rein  alongside.  He  had  observed  in 
a  swift  glance  that  the  stranger  was  apparently  un 
armed,  except  for  the  short,  leather  gad. 

"Good  morning,"  he  returned.  "I  am  on  the  right 
road  to  Lafayette,  I  take  it." 

"You  are,"  said  the  other.  "From  Crawfordsville 
way?" 

"Yes.  I  left  that  place  yesterday.  I  come  from 
afar,  however.  This  is  a  strange  country  to  me." 

"It  is  strange  to  most  of  us.  Unless  I  am  mistaken, 
sir,  you  are  Mr.  Kenneth  Gwynne." 

The  other  smiled.  "My  approach  appears  to  be 
fairly  well  heralded.  Were  I  a  vain  person  I  should 
feel  highly  complimented." 

"Then  you  are  Kenneth  Gwynne?"  said  the  stranger, 
rather  curtly. 

"Yes.     That  is  my  name." 

"Permit  me  to  make  myself  known  to  you.  My  name 


REFLECTIONS  93 

is  Lapelle, — Barry  Lapelle.  While  mine  no  doubt  is 
unfamiliar  to  you,  yours  is  well  known  to  me.  In  fact, 
it  is  known  to  every  one  in  these  parts.  You  have 
long  been  expected.  You  will  find  the  town  anxiously 
awaiting  your  appearance."  He  smiled  slightly.  "If 
you  could  arrange  to  arrive  after  nightfall,  I  am  sure 
you  would  find  bonfires  and  perhaps  a  torchlight  pro 
cession  in  your  honour.  As  it  is,  I  rather  suspect  our 
enterprising  citizen,  Mr.  William  Smith,  will  fire  a  sa 
lute  when  you  appear  in  view." 

"A  salute?"  exclaimed  Kenneth  blankly. 

"A  joyful  habit  of  his,  but  rather  neglected  of  late. 
It  used  to  be  his  custom,  I  hear,  to  put  a  charge  of 
powder  in  a  stump  and  set  it  off  whenever  a  steamboat 
drew  up  to  the  landing.  That  was  his  way  of  letting 
the  farmers  for  miles  around  know  that  a  fresh  supply 
of  goods  had  arrived  and  they  were  to  hurry  in  and 
do  the  necessary  trading  at  the  store.  He  almost  blew 
himself  and  his  store  to  Hallelujah  a  year  or  two  ago, 
and  so  he  isn't  quite  so  enterprising  as  he  was.  I  am 
on  my  way  to  town,  Mr.  Gwynne,  so  if  you  dp  not 
mind,  I  shall  give  myself  the  pleasure  of  riding  along 
with  you  for  a  short  distance.  I  shall  have  to  leave 
you  soon,  however,  as  I  am  due  in  the  town  by  ten 
o'clock.  You  are  too  heavily  laden,  I  see,  to  travel 
at  top  speed, — and  that  is  the  way  I  am  obliged  to 
ride,  curse  the  luck.  When  I  have  set  you  straight 
at  the  branch  of  the  roads  a  little  way  ahead,  I  shall 
use  the  spurs, — and  see  you  later  on." 

"You  are  very  kind.  I  will  be  pleased  to  have  you 
jog  along  with  me." 


CHAPTER  VI 

BARRY  LAPELLE 

SO  this  was  Barry  Lapelle.  This  was  the  wild  rake 
who  might  yet  become  his  brother-in-law,  and 
whose  sprightly  enterprise  had  been  frustrated 
by  a  woman  who  had,  herself,  stolen  away  in  the  dark  of 
a  far-off  night. 

As  they  rode  slowly  along,  side  by  side,  into  the 
thick  of  the  forest,  Kenneth  found  himself  studying 
the  lover's  face.  He  looked  for  the  signs  of  the  reck 
less  dissipated  life  he  was  supposed  to  have  led, — and 
found  them  not.  Lapelle's  eyes  were  bright  and  clear, 
his  skin  unblemished,  his  hand  steady,  his  infrequent 
smile  distinctly  engaging.  The  slight,  disdainful  twist 
never  left  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  however.  It  lurked 
there  as  a  constant  reminder  to  all  the  world  that  he, 
Barry  Lapelle,  was  a  devil  of  a  fellow  and  was  proud 
of  it.  While  he  was  affable,  there  was  no  disguising  the 
fact  that  he  was  also  condescending.  Unquestionably 
he  was  arrogant,  domineering,  even  pompous  at  times, 
absolutely  sure  of  himself. 

He  spoke  with  a  slight  drawl,  in  a  mellow,  agreeable 
voice,  and  with  meticulous  regard  for  the  King's  Eng 
lish, — an  educated  youth  who  had  enjoyed  advantages 
and  associations  uncommon  to  young  men  of  the  fron 
tier.  His  untanned  face  testified  to  a  life  of  ease  and 
comfort,  spent  in  sheltered  places  and  not  in  the  stain 
ing  open,  where  sun  and  wind  laid  bronze  upon  the 
skin.  A  lordly  fellow,  decided  Kenneth,  and  forthwith 

94 


BARRY    LAPELLE  95 

took  a  keen  dislike  for  him.  Nevertheless,  it  was  not 
difficult  to  account  for  Viola's  interest  in  him;  nor,  to 
a  certain  extent,  the  folly  which  led  her  to  undertake 
the  exploit  of  the  night  before.  Barry  Lapelle  would 
have  his  way  with  women. 

"You  come  from  Kentucky,  Mr.  Gwynne,"  Lapelle 
was  saying.  "I  am  from  Louisiana.  My  father  came 
up  to  St.  Louis  a  few  years  ago  after  establishing  a 
line  of  steamboats  between  Terre  Haute  and  the  gulf. 
Two  of  our  company's  boats  come  as  far  north  as 
Lafayette,  so  I  spend  considerable  of  my  time  there 
at  this  season  of  the  year.  You  will  find,  sir,  a  number 
of  Kentucky  and  Virginia  people  in  this  part  of  the 
state.  Splendid  stock,  some  of  them.  I  understand 
you  have  spent  several  years  in  the  East,  at  college 
and  in  pursuit  of  your  study  of  the  law." 

"Principally  in  New  York  and  Philadelphia,"  re 
sponded  the  other,  subduing  a  smile.  "My  fame  seems 
to  have  preceded  me,  Mr.  Lapelle.  Even  in  remote  parts 
of  the  country  I  find  my  arrival  anticipated.  The 
farmer  with  whom  I  spent  the  night  was  thoroughly 
familiar  with  my  affairs." 

"You  are  an  object  of  interest  to  every  one  in  thk 
section,"  said  Lapelle,  indifferently.  "Where  did  you 
spend  the  night?" 

"At  the  farm  of  a  man  named  Striker, — Phineas 
Striker." 

Lapelle  started.  His  body  appeared  to  stiffen  in 
the  saddle. 

"Phineas  Striker?"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  swift,  search 
ing  look  into  the  speaker's  eyes.  Suddenly  a  flush  man 
tled  his  cheek.  "You  were  at  Phineas  Striker's  last 
night?" 

"Yes.     We  had  lost  our  way  and  came  to  his  place 


96  VIOLA    GWYN 

just  before  the  storm,"  said  Kenneth,  watching  his 
companion  narrowly.  Lapelle's  face  was  a  study. 
Doubt,  indecision,  even  dismay,  were  expressed  in  swift 
succession. 

"Then  you  must  have  met, — but  no,  it  isn't  likely," 
he  said,  in  some  confusion. 

Kenneth  hesitated  a  moment,  enjoying  the  other's 
discomfiture.  Then  he  said:  "I  met  no  one  there  ex 
cept  my  sister,  who  also  happened  to  be  spending  the 
night  with  the  Strikers." 

The  colour  faded  from  Lapelle's  face,  leaving  it  a 
sickly  white.  "Were  you  in  any  way  responsible  for — 
well,  for  her  departure,  Mr.  Gwynne  ?"  he  demanded,  his 
eyes  flaming  with  swift,  sudden  anger. 

"I  was  not  aware  of  her  departure  until  I  arose  this 
morning,  Mr.  Lapelle.  Striker  informed  me  that  she 
went  away  before  sunrise." 

For  a  moment  Lapelle  glared  at  him  suspiciously, 
and  then  gave  vent  to  a  short,  contemptuous  laugh. 

"A  thousand  apologies,"  he  said,  shrugging  his  shoul 
ders.  "I  might  have  known  you  would  not  be  con 
sulted." 

"I  never  laid  eyes  on  my  half-sister  until  last  night," 
said  Kenneth,  determined  to  hold  his  temper.  "It  is 
not  likely  that  she  would  have  asked  the  advice  of  a 
total  stranger,  is  it?  Especially  in  so  simple  a  matter 
as  going  home  when  she  felt  like  it." 

Lapelle  shrugged  his  shoulders  again.  "I  quite 
forgot  that  you  are  a  lawyer,  Mr.  Gwynne,"  he  said, 
drily.  "Is  it  your  purpose  to  hang  out  your  shingle 
in  the  town  of  Lafayette?" 

"My  plans  are  indefinite." 

"You  could  do  worse,  I  assure  you.  The  town  is 
bound  to  grow.  It  will  be  an  important  town  in  a  very 


BARRY    LAPELLE  97 

few  years."    And  so  the  subject  uppermost  in  the  minds 
of  both  was  summarily  dismissed. 

They  came  at  last  to  the  point  where  a  road  branched 
off  to  the  right.  The  stillness  was  intense.  There  was 
no  sign  of  either  human  or  animal  life  in  the  depths 
of  this  wide,  primeval  forest. 

"Follow  this  road,"  said  Lapelle,  pointing  straight 
ahead.  "It  will  take  you  into  the  town.  You  will  find 
the  bridge  over  Durkee's  Run  somewhat  shaky  after 
the  rain,  but  it  is  safe.  I  must  leave  you  here.  I  shall 
no  doubt  see  you  at  Johnson's  Inn,  in  case  you  intend 
to  stop  there.  Good  morning,  sir." 

He  lifted  his  hat  and,  touching  the  spirited  mare 
with  the  gad,  rode  swiftly  away.  A  few  hundred  feet 
ahead  he  overtook  his  mud-spattered  friend  and  the 
two  of  them  were  soon  lost  to  sight  among  the  trees. 

Kenneth  fell  into  profound  cogitation.  Evidently 
Lapelle  had  waited  at  the  edge  of  the  forest  for  a  report 
of  some  description  from  the  farmhouse  belonging  to 
Rachel  Carter.  In  all  probability  Viola  was  still  at 
the  farm  with  her  mother,  and  either  she  had  sent  a 
message  to  her  lover  or  had  received  one  from  him. 
Or,  it  was  possible,  Lapelle  had  despatched  his  man  to 
the  farmhouse  to  ascertain  whether  the  girl  was  there, 
or  had  been  hurried  on  into  the  town  by  her  mother. 
In  any  case,  the  disgruntled  lover  was  not  content  to 
acknowledge  himself  thwarted  or  even  discouraged  by 
the  miscarriage  of  his  plans  of  the  night  just  ended. 
Kenneth  found  himself  wondering  if  the  incomprehen 
sible  Viola  would  prove  herself  to  be  equally  determined. 
If  so,  they  would  triumph  over  opposition  and  be  mar 
ried,  whether  or  no.  He  was  conscious  of  an  astound 
ing,  almost  unbelievable  desire  to  stand  with  Rachel 
Carter  in  her  hour  of  trouble. 


98  VIOLA    GWYN 

His  thoughts  went  back,  as  they  had  done  more  than 
once  that  morning,  to  Viola's  artful  account  of  his 
own  father.  He  had  felt  sorry  for  her  during  and 
after  the  recital  and  now,  with  the  truth  revealed  to 
him,  he  was  even  more  concerned  than  before, — for  he 
saw  unhappiness  ahead  of  her  if  she  married  this  fellow 
Lapelle.  He  went  even  farther  back  and  recalled  his 
own  caustic  opinions  of  certain  young  rakes  he  had 
known  in  the  East,  wherein  he  had  invariably  assev 
erated  that  if  he  "had  a  sister  he  would  sooner  see  her 
dead  than  married  to  that  rascal."  Well, — here  he  was 
with  a  sister, — and  what  was  he  to  do  about  it? 

Zachariah,  observing  the  dark  frown  upon  his  mas 
ter's  face,  and  receiving  no  answer  to  a  thrice  repeated 
question,  fell  silent  except  for  the  almost  inaudible 
hymn  with  which  he  invited  consolation. 

From  afar  in  the  thick  wood  now  came  the  occasional 
report  of  a  gun,  proof  that  hunters  were  abroad.  Many 
times  Kenneth  was  roused  from  his  reverie  by  the  boom 
and  whiz  of  pheasants,  or  the  ring  of  a  woodman's 
axe,  or  the  lively  scurrying  of  ground  squirrels  across 
his  path.  They  forded  three  creeks  before  emerging 
upon  a  boggy,  open  space,  covered  with  a  mass  of  flat 
tened,  wind-broken  reeds  and  swamp  grass,  in  the  cen 
tre  of  which  lay  a  wide,  still  bayou  partially  fringed 
by  willows  with  the  first  sickly  signs  of  spring  upon 
them  in  the  shape  of  timid  mole-ear  leaves.  Beyond  the 
bridge  over  the  canal-like  stream  which  fed  the  bayou 
was  a  ridge  of  hills  along  whose  base  the  road  wound 
with  tortuous  indecision. 

The  first  log  cabin  they  had  seen  since  entering  the 
wood  nestled  among  the  scrub  oaks  of  the  hill  hard  by. 
The  front  wall  of  the  hut  was  literally  covered  with 
the  pegged-up  skins  of  foxes,  raccoons  and  what  were 


BARRY    LAPELLE  99 

described  to  Kenneth  as  the  hides  of  "linxes,"  but  which, 
in  reality,  were  from  the  catamount.  A  tall,  bewhis- 
kered  man,  smoking  a  corncob  pipe,  leaned  upon  the 
rail  fence,  regarding  the  strangers  with  lazy  interest. 

Kenneth  drew  rein  and  inquired  how  far  it  was  to 
Lafayette. 

"  'Bout  two  mile  an'  a  half,"  replied  the  man.  "My 
name  is  Stain,  Isaac  Stain.  I  reckon  you  must  be  Mis 
ter  Kenneth  Gwynne.  I  heerd  you'd  be  along  this  way 
some  time  this  morninV 

"I  suppose  Mr.  Lapelle  informed  you  that  I  was 
coming  along  behind,"  said  Kenneth,  smiling. 

"  'Twuzn't  Barry  Lapelle  as  told  me.  I  hain't  seen 
him  to-day.'* 

"Didn't  he  pass  here  within  the  hour?'* 

"Nope,"  was  the  laconic  response. 

"I  met  him  back  along  the  road.  He  was  coming 
this  way." 

"Must  'a*  changed  his  mind." 

"He  probably  took  another  road." 

"There  hain't  no  other  road.  I  reckon  he  turned  off 
into  the  wood  an'  'lowed  you  to  pass,"  said  Mr.  Stain 
slowly. 

"But  he  was  in  great  haste  to  reach  town.  He  may 
have  passed  when  you  were  not — " 

"He  didn't  pass  this  place  unless  he  was  astraddle  of 
an  eagle  er  somethin'  like  that,"  declared  the  other, 
grinning.  "An'  even  then  he'd  have  to  be  flyin'  purty 
doggone  high  ef  I  couldn't  see  him.  Nope.  I  guess 
he  took  to  the  woods,  Mr.  Gwynne,  for  one  reason  er 
'nother, — an'  it  must  ha'  been  a  mighty  good  reason, 
'cause  from  what  I  know  about  Barry  Lapelle  he  allus 
knows  which  way  he's  goin'  to  leap  long  before  he  leaps. 
He's  sorter  like  a  painter  in  that  way." 


100  VIOLA    GWYN 

Kenneth,  knowing  that  he  meant  panther  when  he 
said  painter,  was  properly  impressed. 

"It  is  very  strange,"  he  said,  frowning.  It  was  sud 
denly  revealed  to  him  that  if  Lapelle  had  tricked  him 
it  was  because  the  messenger  had  brought  word  from 
Viola,  at  the  farmhouse,  and  that  the  baffled  lovers 
might  even  now  be  laying  fresh  plans  to  outwit  the 
girl's  mother.  This  fear  was  instantly  dissipated  by 
the  next  remark  of  Isaac  Stain. 

"Nope.  It  wuzn't  him  that  told  me  about  you, 
pardner.  It  wuz  Violy  Gwyn.  She  went  by  here  with 
her  ma,  jes'  as  I  wuz  startin'  off  to  look  at  my  traps, 
— 'long  about  seven  o'clock,  I  reckon, — headed  for 
town.  She  sez  to  me,  sez  she:  'Ike,  there'll  be  a  young 
man  an'  a  darkey  boy  come  ridin'  this  way  some  time 
this  forenoon  an'  I  want  you  to  give  him  a  message 
for  me.'  'With  pleasure,'  sez  I;  'anything  you  ask,* 
sez  I.  'Well,'  sez  she,  'it's  this.  Fust  you  ask  him 
ef  his  name  is  Kenneth  Gwynne,  an  'ef  he  sez  it  is,  then 
you  look  an'  see  ef  he  is  a  tall  feller  an*  very  good- 
lookin',  without  a  beard,  an'  wearin'  a  blue  cape,  an* 
when  you  see  that  he  answers  that  description,  why, 
you  tell  him  to  come  an'  see  me  as  soon  as  he  gits  to 
town.  Tell  him  it's  very  important.'  'All  right,*  sez 
I,  Til  tell  him.'  " 

"Where  was  her  mother  all  this  time?" 

"Settin*  right  there  in  the  buggy  beside  her,  holdin* 
the  reins.  Where  else  would  she  be?** 

"Did  she  say  anything  about  my  coming  to  see  her 
daughter?" 

"Nope.  She  never  said  anythin*  'cept  'Good  mornin*, 
Ike,'  an'  I  sez  'Good  mornin',  Mrs.  Gwyn.*  She  don't 
talk  much,  she  don't.  You  see,  she's  in  mournin'  fer 
her  husband.  I  guess  he  wuz  your  pa,  wuzn't  he?" 


BARRY    LAPELLE  101 

"Yes,"  said  Kenneth  briefly.  "Was  there  anything 
else?" 

"Nothin'  to  amount  to  anything.  Violy  sez,  'When 
did  you  get  the  linx  skins,  Ike  ?'  an'  I  sez,  'Last  Friday, 
Miss  Violy,'  an'  she  sez,  'Ain't  they  beautiful?'  an'  I 
sez—" 

"She  wants  me  to  come  to  her  house?"  broke  in 
Kenneth,  his  brow  darkening. 

"I  reckon  so." 

"Well,  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Stain.  You  are  very  kind 
to  have  waited  so  long  for  me  to  arrive.  I — " 

"Oh,  I'd  do  a  whole  lot  more'n  that  fer  her,"  said 
the  hunter  quickly.  "You  see,  I've  knowed  her  ever 
since  she  wuz  knee-high  to  a  duck.  She  wuzn't  more'n 
five  or  six  when  I  brung  her  an'  her  folks  up  the 
Wabash  in  my  perogue,  all  the  way  from  Vincennes, 
an'  it  wuz  me  that  took  her  down  to  St.  Louis  when 
she  went  off  to  school — her  an'  some  friends  of  her 
pa's.  Skinny,  gangling  sort  of  a  young  'un  she  wuz, 
but  let  me  tell  you,  as  purty  as  a  picter.  I  allus  said 
she'd  be  the  purtiest  woman  in  all  creation  when  she 
got  her  growth  an*  filled  out,  an',  by  hokey,  I  wuz  right. 
Yes,  sir,  I  used  to  run  a  boat  on  the  river  down  below, 
but  I  give  it  up  quite  awhile  ago  an'  come  up  here  to 
live  like  a  gentleman."  He  waved  his  hand  proudly 
over  his  acre  and  a  half  estate.  "I  wuz  talkin'  to  Bill 
Digby  not  long  ago  an'  he  sez  this  is  a  wonderful  loca 
tion  for  a  town,  right  here  at  the  fork  of  two  o*  the 
best  fishin'  cricks  in  the  state.  An'  Bill  he'd  ort  to 
know,  'cause  he's  laid  out  more  towns  than  anybody 
I  know  of.  The  only  trouble  with  Bill  is  that  as  soon 
as  he  lays  'em  out  somebody  comes  along  an'  offers 
him  a  hundred  dollars  er  so  fer  'em,  er  a  team  of  bosses, 
er  a  good  coon  dog,  an'  he  up  an'  sells.  Now,  with 


102  VIOLA    GWYN 

me,  I —  Got  to  be  movin'  along,  have  you?  Well, 
good-bye,  an'  be  a  little  keerful  when  you  come  to 
Durkee's  Run  bridge.  It's  kinder  wobbly." 

They  were  fording  a  creek  some  distance  beyond 
Stain's  cabin  when  Kenneth  broke  the  silence  that  had 
followed  the  conversation  with  the  hunter  by  exploding 
violently : 

"Under  no  circumstances, — and  that's  all  there  is 
to  it." 

Zachariah,  ever  ready  to  seize  an  opportunity  to 
raise  his  voice,  either  in  expostulation  or  agreement, 
took  this  as  a  generous  opening.  He  exclaimed  with 
commendable  feeling: 

"Yas,  suh!    Undeh  no  suckemstances !    No,  suh!" 

"It  is  not  even  to  be  thought  of,"  declared  his  mas 
ter,  frowning  heavily. 

"No,  suh!  We  can't  even  think  about  it,  Marse 
Kenneth,"  said  Zachariah,  a  trifle  less  decisively. 

"So  that  is  the  end  of  it, — absolutely  the  end." 

"Dat's  what  Ah  say, — yas,  suh,  dat's  what  Ah  say 
all  along,  suh!" 

His  master  suddenly  turned  upon  him.  "I  cannot  go 
to  that  woman's  house.  It  is  unthinkable,  Zachariah." 

Zachariah  began  to  see  light.  "Yo*  all  got  to  be 
mighty  car'ful  'bout  dese  yere  strange  women,  Marse 
Kenneth.  Don'  you  forget  what  done  happen  in  'at  ole 
Garden  of  Eden.  Dis  yere  old  Eve,  she — " 

"Still  I  am  greatly  relieved  to  know  that  she  is  in 
town  and  not  out  on  the  farm.  It  is  a  relief,  isn't  it, 
Zachariah?" 

"Yas,  suh, — hit  sho'ly  am." 

They  progressed  slowly  up  a  long  hill  and  came  to 
an  extensive  clearing,  over  which  perhaps  half  a  dozen 
farmhouses  were  scattered.  Beyond  this  open  space 


BARRY    LAPELLE  103 

they  entered  a  narrow  strip  of  wood  and,  upon  emerg 
ing,  bad  their  first  glimpse  of  the  Wabash  River. 

Stopping  at  the  brow  of  the  hill,  they  looked  long 
and  curiously  over  the  valley  into  which  they  were 
about  to  descend.  The  panorama  was  magnificent. 
To  the  left  flowed  the  swollen,  turgid  river,  high  among 
the  willows  and  sycamores  that  guarded  the  low-lying 
bank.  Far  to  the  north  it  could  be  seen,  a  clayish, 
ugly  monster,  crawling  down  through  the  heart  of  the 
bowl-like  depression.  Mile  after  mile  of  sparsely 
wooded  country  lay  revealed  to  the  gaze  of  the  travel 
lers,  sunken  between  densely  covered  ridges,  one  on 
either  side  of  the  river.  Half  a  mile  beyond  where 
they  stood  feathery  blue  plumes  of  smoke  rose  out  of 
the  tree  tops  and,  dispersing,  floated  away  on  the 
breeze, — and  there  lay  the  town  of  Lafayette,  conv 
pletely  hidden  from  view. 

The  road  wound  down  the  hill  and  across  a  clumsily 
constructed  bridge  spanning  the  Run  and  thence  along 
the  flat  shelf  that  rimmed  the  bottom-land,  through 
a  maze  of  wild  plum  and  hazel  brush  squatting,  as  it 
were,  at  the  feet  of  the  towering  forest  giants  that 
covered  the  hills. 

Presently  the  travellers  came  upon  widely  separated 
cabins  and  gardens,  and  then,  after  passing  through 
a  lofty  grove,  found  themselves  entering  the  town 
itself.  Signs  of  life  and  enterprise  greeted  them  from 
all  sides.  Here,  there  and  everywhere  houses  were  in 
process  of  erection, — log-cabins,  frame  structures,  and 
even  an  occasional  brick  dwelling-place.  Turning  into 
what  appeared  to  be  a  well-travelled  road, — (he  after 
wards  found  it  to  be  Wabash  Street),  Kenneth  came 
in  the  course  of  a  few  minutes  to  the  centre  of  the 
town.  Here  was  the  little  brick  courthouse  and  the 


VIOLA    GWYN 

jail,  standing  in  the  middle  of  a  square  which  still  con 
tained  the  stumps  of  many  of  the  trees  that  originally 
had  flourished  there.  At  the  southwest  corner  of  the 
square  was  the  tavern,  a  long  story  and  a  half  log 
house, — and  it  was  a  welcome  sight  to  Gwynne  and  his 
servant,  both  of  whom  were  ravenously  hungry  by 
this  time. 

The  former  observed,  with  considerable  satisfaction, 
that  there  were  quite  a  number  of  substantial  looking 
buildings  about  the  square,  mostly  stores,  all  of  them 
with  hitching-racks  along  the  edge  of  the  dirt  side 
walks.  As  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  in  every  direc 
tion,  the  muddy  streets  were  lined  with  trees. 

Half  a  dozen  men  were  standing  in  front  of  the 
tavern  when  the  newcomers  rode  up.  Kenneth  dis 
mounted  and  threw  the  reins  to  his  servant.  Land 
lord  Johnson  hurried  out  to  greet  him. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  END  OF  THE  LONG  BOAD 

""W  TT  TE'VE  been  expecting  you,  Mr.  Gwynne," 
\/  \f  he  said  in  his  most  genial  manner.  "Step 
right  in.  Dinner'll  soon  be  ready,  and  I 
reckon  you  must  be  hungry.  Take  the  hosses  around 
to  the  stable,  nigger,  and  put  'em  up.  I  allowed  you'd 
be  delayed  some  by  the  bad  roads,  but  I  guess  you 
must  have  got  a  late  start  this  mornin'  from  Phin 
Striker's.  Mrs. — er — ahem !  I  mean  your  step-mother 
sent  word  that  you  were  on  the  way  and  to  have 
accommodations  ready  for  you.  Say,  I'd  like  to  make 
you  acquainted  with — " 

"My  step-mother  sent  word  to  you  ?"  demanded  Ken 
neth,  incredulously. 

"She  did.  What  would  you  expect  her  to  do,  long 
as  she  knew  you  were  headed  this  way?  I  admit  she 
isn't  specially  given  to  worryin'  about  other  people's 
comforts,  but,  when  you  get  right  down  to  it,  I  guess 
she  considers  you  a  sort  of  connection  of  hers,  spite 
of  everything,  and  so  she  lays  herself  out  a  little.  But 
I  want  to  tell  you  one  thing,  Mr.  Gwynne,  you're  not 
going  to  find  her  particularly  cordial,  as  the  sayin' 
is.  She's  about  as  stand-offish  and  unneighbourly  as 
a  Kickapoo  Indian.  But,  as  I  was  sayin',  I'd  like  to 
make  you  acquainted  with  some  of  our  leadin'  citizens. 
This  is  Daniel  Bugher,  the  recorder,  and  Doctor  Davis, 
Matt  Scudder,  Tom  Benbridge  and  John  McCormick. 

It  was  moved  and  seconded,  soon  as  you  heaved  in 

105 


106  VIOLA    GWYN 

sight,  that  we  repair  at  once  to  Sol  Harrier's  grocery 
for  a  little—" 

"Excuse  me,"  broke  in  Kenneth,  laughing;  "I  have 
heard  of  that  grocery,  and  I  think  it  would  be  wise  for 
me  to  become  a  little  better  acquainted  with  my  sur 
roundings  before  I  begin  trading  there." 

The  landlord  rubbed  his  chin  and  the  other  gentle 
men  laughed  uproariously. 

"Well,"  said  the  former,  "I  can  see  one  thing  mighty 
plain.  You're  going  to  be  popular  with  my  wife  and 
all  the  other  women  in  town.  They'll  point  to  you 
and  say  to  practically  nine-tenths  of  the  married  men 
in  Lafayette:  'There's  a  man  that  don't  drink,  and 
goodness  knows  he  isn't  a  preacher !' ' 

"I  am  hardly  what  you  would  call  a  teetotaler,  gen 
tlemen,"  said  Gwynne,  still  smiling. 

"Wait  till  you  get  down  with  a  spell  of  the  Wabasli 
shakes,"  said  Mr.  McCormick.  "That'll  make  a  new 
man  of  him,  won't  it,  Doc?" 

"Depends  somewhat  on  his  constitution  and  the  way 
he  was  brought  up,"  said  the  doctor,  with  a  profes 
sional  frown  which  slowly  relaxed  into  an  unprofes 
sional  smile, 

"I  was  brought  up  by  my  grandmother,"  explained 
Kenneth,  vastly  amused. 

"That  settles  it,"  groaned  Mr.  Johnson.  "You're 
not  long  for  this  world.  Before  we  go  in  I  wish  you'd 
take  a  look  at  the  new  courthouse.  We're  mighty 
proud  of  that  building.  There  isn't  a  finer  courthouse 
in  the  state  of  Indiana, — or  maybe  I'd  better  say  there 
won't  be  if  it's  ever  finished." 

"I  noticed  it  as  I  came  by,"  said  the  newcomer,  dis 
missing  the  structure  with  a  glance.  "If  you  will  con 
duct  me  to  my  room,  Mr.  Johnson,  I — " 


END    OF    THE    LONG    ROAD      107 

"Just  a  second,"  broke  in  the  landlord,  his  gaze  fixed 
on  a  horseman  who  had  turned  into  the  street  some 
distance  below.  "Here  comes  Barry  Lapelle, — down 
there  by  that  clump  of  sugar  trees.  He's  the  most 
elegant  fellow  we've  got  in  town,  and  you'll  want  to 
know  him.  Makes  Lafayette  his  headquarters  most  of 
the—" 

"I  have  met  Mr.  Lapelle,"  interrupted  Kenneth. 
"This  morning,  out  in  the  country." 

"You  don't  say  so !"  exclaimed  Johnson.  The  citi 
zens  exchanged  a  general  look  of  surprise. 

"Thought  you  said  he  went  down  the  river  on  yes 
terday's  boat,"  said  Scudder. 

"That's  just  what  he  did,"  said  Johnson,  puzzled. 
"Packed  some  of  his  things  and  said  he'd  be  gone  a 
week  or  so.  He  must  have  got  off  at  Attica, — but,  no, 
he  couldn't  have  got  here  this  soon  by  road.  By  glory, 
I  hope  the  boat  didn't  strike  a  snag  or  a  rock,  or  run 
ashore  somewhere.  Looks  kind  of  serious,  boys." 

"Couldn't  he  have  landed  almost  anywhere  in  a 
skiff?"  inquired  Gwynne,  his  eyes  on  the  approaching 
horseman. 

"Certainly  he  could, — but  why?  He  had  business 
down  at  Covington,  he  said." 

"He  told  me  this  morning  he  had  very  important 
business  here.  That  is  why  he  could  not  ride  in  with 
me,"  said  Kenneth,  affecting  indifference.  "By  the  way, 
is  he  riding  his  own  horse?" 

"Yes,"  said  Benbridge.  "That's  his  mare  Fancy, — 
thoroughbred  filly  by  King  Philip  out  of  Shawnee 
Belle.  He  sent  her  down  to  Joe  Fell's  to  stud  yester 
day  and —  Say,  that  accounts  for  him  being  on  her 
now.  You  made  a  good  guess,  Mr.  Gwynne.  He  must 
have  landed  at  La  Grange,  rowed  across  the  river,  and 


108  VIOLA   GWYN 

hoofed  it  up  to  Fell's  farm.  But  what  do  you  suppose 
made  him  change  his  mind  so  suddenly?'* 

"He'll  probably  tell  you  to  go  to  thunder  if  you 
ask  him,"  said  the  landlord. 

"I'm  not  going  to  ask  him  anything,"  retorted  Ben- 
bridge. 

"He's  working  tooth  and  nail  against  the  Wabash 
and  Erie  Canal  that's  projected  to  run  from  Lake 
Erie  to  the  mouth  of  the  Tippecanoe,  Mr.  Gwynne," 
said  one  of  the  citizens.  "But  it's  coming  through  in 
spite  of  him  and  all  the  rest  of  the  river  hogs." 

"I  see,"  said  the  young  man,  a  grim  smile  playing 
about  his  lips. 

He  knew  that  the  mare  Fancy  had  been  in  waiting 
for  her  master  when  he  clambered  ashore  on  the  river 
bank  opposite  La  Grange,  and  he  also  suspected  that 
the  little  steamboat  had  remained  tied  up  at  the  landing 
all  night  long  and  well  into  the  morning,  expecting  two 
passengers  who  failed  to  come  aboard.  He  could  not 
suppress  a  chuckle  of  satisfaction. 

Lapelle  rode  up  at  this  instant  and,  throwing  the 
bridle  rein  to  a  boy  who  had  come  running  up  from 
the  stable,  dismounted  quickly.  He  came  straight  to 
Gwynne,  smiling  cordially. 

"I  see  you  beat  me  in.  After  we  parted  I  decided 
to  cut  through  the  woods  to  have  a  look  at  Jack  Mox- 
ley's  keel  boat,  stuck  in  the  mud  on  this  side  of  the  river. 
You'd  think  the  blame  fool  would  have  sense  enough  to 
keep  well  out  in  mid  stream  at  a  time  like  this.  Happy 
to  have  you  here  with  us,  and  I  hope  you  will  like  us 
well  enough  to  stay." 

"Thank  you.  I  shall  like  you  all  better  after  I  have 
had  something  to  eat,"  said  Kenneth. 

"And  drink,"  added  Lapelle.    It  was  then  that  Ken- 


END    OF    THE    LONG    ROAD      109 

neth  noticed  that  his  eyes  were  slightly  blurred  and 
his  voice  a  trifle  thick.  He  had  been  drinking. 

"What  turned  you  back,  Barry?"  inquired  McCor- 
mick.  "Thought  you  were  to  be  gone  a  week  or — " 

"Changed  my  mind,"  said  Lapelle  curtly,  and  then, 
apparently  on  second  thought,  added:  "I  got  off  the 
boat  at  La  Grange  and  crossed  over  to  spend  the  night 
at  Martin  Hawk's,  the  man  you  saw  with  me  this 
morning,  Mr.  Gwynne.  He  is  a  hunter  down  Middle- 
ton  way.  I  fish  and  hunt  with  him  a  good  deal.  Well, 
I  reckon  I'd  better  go  in  and  get  out  of  these  muddy 
boots  and  pants." 

Without  another  word,  he  strode  up  the  steps,  across 
the  porch  and  into  the  tavern,  his  head  high,  his  gait 
noticeably  unsteady. 

"Martin  Hawk !"  growled  the  landlord.  "The  orner- 
iest  cuss  this  side  of  hell.  Plain  no-good  scalawag. 
Barry'll  find  it  out  some  day,  and  then  maybe  he'll 
wish  he  had  paid  some  attention  to  what  I've  been 
tellin'  him." 

"Wouldn't  surprise  me  a  bit  if  Mart  knows  a  whole 
lot  more  about  what  became  of  some  mighty  good 
yearlin'  colts  that  used  to  belong  to  honest  men  down 
on  the  Wea,"  said  one  of  the  group,  darkly. 

"I  wouldn't  trust  Mart  Hawk  as  far  as  I  could 
throw  a  thousand  pound  rock,"  observed  Mr.  Johnson, 
compressing  his  lips.  "Well,  come  on  in,  Mr.  Gwynne, 
and  slick  up  a  bit.  The  dinner  bell  will  be  ringin'  in 
a  few  minutes,  and  I  want  you  to  meet  the  cook  before 
you  risk  eatin'  any  of  her  victuals.  My  wife's  the  cook, 
so  you  needn't  look  scared.  Governor  Noble  almost 
died  of  over-f  eedin'  the  last  time  he  was  here, — but  that 
wasn't  her  fault.  And  my  daughters,  big  and  little, 
seem  anxious  to  get  acquainted  with  the  celebrated 


110  VIOLA    GWYN 

Kenneth  Gwynne.  People*  have  been  talkin'  so  much 
about  you  for  the  last  six  months  that  nearly  every 
body  calls  you  by  your  first  name,  and  Jim  Crouch's 
wife  is  so  taken  with  it  that  she  has  made  up  her  mind 
to-  call  her  baby  Kenneth, — that  is,  providing  nature 
does  the  right  thing.  Next  week  some  time,  ain't  it, 
Doc?" 

"That's  what  most  everybody  in  town  says,  Bob," 
replied  the  doctor  solemnly,  "so  I  guess  it  must  be 
true." 

"We  begin  counting  the  inhabitants  of  the  town  as 
far  as  a  month  ahead  sometimes,"  explained  Mr.  Mc- 
Cormick  drily.  "I  don't  know  as  we've  been  out  of  the 
way  more  than  a  day  or  a  day-and-a-half  on  any  baby 
that's  been  born  here  in  the  last  two  years.  Hope  to 
see  you  in  my  store  down  there,  Mr.  Gwynne — any  time 
you're  passing  that  way.  You  can't  miss  it.  It's  just 
across  the  street  from  that  white  frame  building  with 
the  green  stripes  running  criss-cross  on  the  front  door, 
— Joe  Hanna's  store." 

"Robert  Gwyn's  son  is  always  welcome  at  my  store 
and  my  home,"  said  another  cordially.  "We  didn't 
know  till  last  fall  that  he  had  a  son,  and — well,  I  hope 
you  don't  mind  my  saying  we  couldn't  believe  it  at 
first." 

"You  spell  the  name  different  from  the  way  he 
spelled  it,"  answered  Bugher,  the  recorder.  "I  noticed 
it  in  your  letters,  and  it  struck  me  as  queer." 

"My  father  appears  to  have  reverted  to  the  original 
way  of  spelling  the  name,"  said  Kenneth,  from  the 
upper  step.  "My  forebears  were  Welsh,  you  see.  The 
manner  of  spelling  it  was  changed  when  they  came  to 
America,  over  a  hundred  years  ago." 

His  bedroom  was  in  the  small  wing  off  the  dining- 


END    OF    THE    LONG    ROAD      111 

room.  Its  one  window  looked  out  upon  the  courthouse, 
the  view  being  somewhat  restricted  by  the  presence  of 
a  pair  of  low-branched  oak  trees  in  the  side-yard, 
almost  within  arm's  length  of  the  wall, — they  were  so 
close,  in  fact,  that  their  limbs  stretched  out  over  the 
rough  shingle  roof,  producing  in  the  wind  an  everlast 
ing  sound  of  scratching  and  scraping.  There  was  a 
huge  four-poster  feather  bed  of  mountainous  propor 
tions,  leaving  the  occupant  scant  space  in  which  to 
move  about  the  room. 

"Last  people  to  occupy  this  room,"  said  Mr.  John 
son,  standing  in  the  doorway,  "were  George  Ripley 
and  Edna  Cole,  three  weeks  ago  last  night.  They 
came  in  from  the  Grand  Prairie  and  only  stayed  the 
one  night.  Had  to  get  back  to  the  farm  next  day  on 
account  of  it  bein*  wash-day.  I  guess  I  forgot  to  say 
they  were  on  their  weddin'-trip.  Generally  speaking, 
it  takes  about  three  years  for  people  to  get  over  callin' 
a  girl  by  her  maiden  name, — so  you  needn't  think  there 
was  anything  wrong  about  George  and  Edna  stayin' 
here.  I  wish  you  could  have  been  here  to  drive  out  to 
the  infare  at  her  pa's  house  two  nights  after  the  wed- 
din'.  It  was  the  biggest  ever  held  on  that  side  of  the 
river, — and  as  for  the  shiveree, — my  Lord,  it  was  some 
thing  to  talk  about.  Tin  cans,  cowbells,  shot-guns, 
tenor-drums, — but  I'm  keeping  you,  Mr.  Gwynne. 
You'll  find  water  in  that  jug  over  there,  and  a  towel 
by  the  lookin'  glass.  Come  out  when  you're  ready." 

When  Kenneth  returned  to  the  dining-room,  he  found 
Johnson  waiting  there  with  his  wife  and  two  of  his 
comely  daughters.  They  were  presented  to  the  new 
guest  with  due  informality,  and  then  the  landlord  went 
out  upon  the  front  porch  to  ring  the  dinner-bell. 

"I  guess  you  won't  be  stayin'  here  long,  Mr.  Gwynne," 


112  VIOLA    GWYN 

said  Mrs.  Johnson.  "Your  mother, — I  should  say, 
your  step-mother, — has  got  your  house  all  ready  for 
you  to  move  right  in.  Job  Turner  moved  out  last 
week,  and  she  took  some  of  the  furniture  and  things 
over  so's  you  could  be  sort  of  at  home  right  away." 
Observing  his  start,  and  the  sudden  tightening  of  his 
lips,  she  went  on  complacently :  "  'Twasn't  much  trouble 
for  her.  Your  house  isn't  more  than  fifty  yards  from 
hers, — just  across  lots,  you  might  say.  She — " 

Kenneth,  forgetting  himself  in  his  agitation,  inter 
rupted  her  with  the  startling  question: 

"Where  does  Rachel  Carter  live?" 

"Rachel  who?" 

He  collected  his  wits,  stammering: 

"I  believe  that  was  her  name  before  she — before  she 
married  my  father." 

"Oh,  I  see.  Her  name  is  Rachel,  of  course.  Well, 
her  house  is  up  Columbia  street, — that's  the  one  on  the 
other  side  of  the  square, — almost  to  the  hill  where 
Isaac  Edwards  has  his  brickyard,  just  this  side  of  the 
swamp." 

After  dinner,  which  was  eaten  at  a  long  table  in 
company  with  eight  or  ten  "customers,"  to  whom  he 
was  introduced  by  the  genial  host,  he  repaired  to  the 
office  of  Recorder  Bugher. 

"Everything's  in  good  shape,"  announced  Bugher. 
"There  ain't  a  claim  against  the  property,  now  that 
Mrs.  Gwyn  has  given  up  her  idea  of  contesting  the 
will.  The  property  is  in  your  name  now,  Mr.  Gwynne, 
— and  that  reminds  me  that  your  father,  in  his  will, 
spells  your  name  with  a  double  n  and  an  e,  while  he 
spells  hers  with  only  one  n.  He  took  into  consideration 
the  fact  that  you  spelled  your  name  in  the  new-fangled 
way,  as  you  say  he  used  to  spell  it  in  Kentucky.  And 


END    OF    THE    LONG    ROAD      113 

that  also  accounts  for  his  signing  the  will  'Robert 
Gwyn,  formerly  known  as  Robert  Gwynne.'  It's  legal, 
all  right,  properly  witnessed  and  attested  by  two  reli 
able  men  of  this  county." 

"I  have  seen  a  copy  of  the  will.'* 

"Another  queer  thing  about  it  is  that  he  bequeathed 
certain  property  to  you  as  'my  son,  Kenneth  Gwynne,' 
— while  he  fails  to  mention  his  daughter  Viola  at  all, 
except  to  say  that  he  bequeaths  so-and-so  to  'Rachel 
Gwyn,  to  give,  bequeath  and  devise  as  she  sees  fit.'  Of 
course,  Viola,  by  law,  is  entitled  to  a  share  of  the 
estate  and  it  should  have  been  so  designated.  Judge 
Wylie  says  she  can  contest  the  will  if  she  so  desires, 
on  the  ground  that  she  is  entitled  to  as  much  as  you, 
Mr.  Gwynne.  But  she  has  decided  to  let  it  stand  as 
it  is,  and  I  guess  she's  sensible.  All  that  her  mother 
now  has  will  go  to  her  when  said  Rachel  dies,  and  as 
it  will  be  a  full  half  of  the  estate  instead  of  what 
might  have  been  only  a  third,  I  guess  she's  had  pretty 
good  advice  from  some  one." 

"The  fact  that  my  half-sister  was  not  mentioned  in 
the  will  naturally  led  me  to  conclude  that  no  such 
person  existed.  I  did  not  know  till  this  morning,  Mr. 
Bugher,  that  I  had  a  half-sister." 

"Well,"  began  the  recorder,  pursing  his  lips,  "for 
that  matter  she  didn't  know  she  had  a  half-brother  till 
the  will  was  read,  so  she  was  almost  as  ignorant  as 

you." 

"It's  all  very  strange, — exceedingly  strange." 

"When  did  your  own  mother  die,  if  it's  a  fair  ques 
tion?" 

"In  the  year  1812.  My  father  was  away  when  she 
died." 

"Off  to  the  war,  I  suppose." 


114  VIOLA    GWYN 

"Yes,"  said  the  young  man  steadily.  "Off  to  the 
war,"  he  lied,  still  staring  out  of  the  window.  "I  was 
left  with  my  grandparents  when  he  went  off  to  make 
his  fortune  in  this  new  country.  It  was  not  until  I 
was  fairly  well  grown  that  we  heard  that  he  was  married 
to  a  woman  named  Rachel  Carter." 

"Well,  I  guess  it's  something  you  don't  like  to  talk 
about,"  said  Mr.  Bugher,  and  turned  his  attention  to 
the  records  they  were  consulting. 

Later  the  young  man  called  at  the  office  of  Mr.  Cor 
nell,  the  lawyer  who  had  charge  of  his  affairs.  He  had 
come  to  Lafayette  prepared  to  denounce  Rachel  Car 
ter,  to  drive  her  in  shame  and  disgrace  from  the  town, 
if  necessary.  Now  he  found  himself  confronted  by  a 
condition  that  distressed  and  perplexed  him;  his  bitter 
resolve  was  rudely  shaken  and  he  was  in  a  dire  state 
of  uncertainty.  He  was  faced  by  a  most  unexpected 
and  staggering  situation. 

To  denounce  Rachel  Carter  would  be  to  deliberately 
strike  a  cruel,  devastating  blow  at  the  happiness  and 
peace  of  an  innocent  person, — Viola  Gwyn,  his  own 
half-sister.  A  word  from  him,  and  that  lovely  girl, 
serene  in  her  beliefs,  would  be  crushed  for  life.  The 
whole  scheme  of  life  had  been  changed  for  him  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  as  it  were.  He  could  not  wreak 
vengeance  upon  Rachel  Carter  without  destroying 
Viola  Gwyn, — and  the  mere  thought  of  that  caused  him 
to  turn  cold  with  repugnance.  How  could  he  publish 
Rachel  Carter's  infamy  to  the  world  with  that  inno 
cent  girl  standing  beside  her  to  receive  and  sustain 
the  worst  of  the  shock?  Impossible!  Viola  must  be 
spared, — and  so  with  her,  Rachel  Carter! 

Then  there  was  the  strange  message  he  had  received 
from  Viola,  through  the  hunter,  Stain.  What  was 


END    OF    THE    LONG    ROAD      115 

back  of  the  earnest  request  for  him  to  come  and  see 
her  at  her  mother's  house?  Was  she  in  trouble?  Was 
she  in  need  of  his  help?  Was  she  depending  upon  him, 
her  blood  relation,  for  counsel  in  an  hour  of  duress? 
He  was  sadly  beset  by  conflicting  emotions. 

In  the  course  of  his  interview  with  the  lawyer,  from 
whom  he  had  decided  to  withhold  much  that  he  had 
meant  to  divulge,  he  took  occasion  to  inquire  into  the 
present  attitude  of  Rachel  Carter, — or  -Gwyn,  as  he 
reluctantly  spoke  of  her, — toward  him,  an  open  .and 
admitted  antagonist. 

"Well,"  said  Cornell,  shaking  his  head,  "I  don't  be 
lieve  you  will  catch  her  asking  any  favours  of  you. 
She  has  laid  down  her  arms,  so  to  speak,  but  that 
doesn't  mean  she  intends  to  be  friendly.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  she  simply  accepts  the  situation, — with  very 
bad  grace,  of  course, — but  she'll  never  be  able  to  alter 
her  nature  or  her  feelings.  She  considers  herself 
cheated,  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it.  I  doubt  very 
much  whether  she  will  even  speak  to  you,  Mr.  Gwynne. 
She  is  a  strange  woman,  and  a  hard  one  to  under 
stand.  She  fought  desperately  against  your  coming 
here  at  all.  One  of  her  propositions  was  that  she 
should  be  allowed  to  buy  your  share  of  the  estate,  if 
such  a  transaction  could  be  arranged,  you  will  remem 
ber.  You  declined  to  consider  it.  This  was  after  she 
withdrew  her  proposed  contest  of  the  will.  Then  she 
got  certain  Crawfordsville  men  interested  in  the  pur 
chase  of  your  land,  and  they  made  you  a  bona  fide  offer, 
— I  think  they  offered  more  than  the  property  is  worth, 
by  the  way.  I  think,  back  of  everything,  she  could 
not  bear  the  thought  of  you,  the  son  of  a  former  wife, 
living  next  door  to  her.  Jealousy,  I  suppose, — but 
not  unnatural,  after  all,  in  a  second  wife,  is  it? 


116  VIOLA    GWYN 

They're  usually  pretty  cantankerous  when  it  comes  to 
the  first  wife's  children.  As  regards  her  present  atti 
tude,  I  think  she'll  let  you  alone  if  you  let  her  alone." 

"My  sister  has  asked  me  to  come  up  to  the  house 
to  see  her  this  afternoon,'*  said  Kenneth. 

The  lawyer  looked  surprised.  "Is  that  so?  Well," 
with  a  puzzled  frown,  "I  don't  quite  understand  how 
she  came  to  do  that.  I  was  under  the  impression  that 
she  felt  about  as  bitterly  toward  you  as  her  mother 
does.  In  fact,  she  has  said  some  rather  nasty  things 
about  you.  Boasted  to  more  than  one  of  her  friends 
that  she  would  slap  your  face  if  you  ever  tried  to 
speak  to  her." 

Kenneth  smiled,  a  reminiscent  light  in  his  eyes.  "She 
has  done  so,  figuratively  speaking,  Mr.  Cornell.  I  am 
confident  she  hates  me, — but  if  that's  the  case,  why 
should  she  leave  word  for  me  to  come  and  see  her?" 

"Experience  has  taught  me  that  women  have  a  very 
definite  object  in  view  when  they  let  on  as  if  they  had 
changed  their  minds,"  was  the  judicial  opinion  of  Mr. 
Cornell.  "Maybe  they  don't  realize  it,  but  they  are 
as  wily  as  the  devil  when  they  think,  and  you  think, 
and  everybody  else  thinks,  they're  behaving  like  an 
angel.  It's  not  for  me  to  say  whether  you  should  go 
to  see  her  or  not,  but  I  believe  I  would  if  I  were  in 
your  place.  Maybe  she  has  made  up  her  mind  to  be 
friendly,  on  the  surface  at  least,  and  as  you  are  bound 
to  meet  each  other  at  people's  houses,  parties,  and  all 
such,  perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  bury  the  hatchet. 
I  think  you  will  be  quite  safe  in  going  up  there  to-day, 
so  far  as  Mrs.  Gwyn  is  concerned.  She  will  not  appear 
on  the  scene,  I  am  confident.  You  will  not  come  in 
contact  with  her.  You  say  that  she  has  put  some  of 
her  furniture  at  your  disposal,  but  she  doubtless  did 


END    OF    THE    LONG    ROAD      117 

so  on  the  advice  of  her  lawyer.  You  must  not  forget 
that  your  father,  in  his  will,  left  half  of  his  personal 
effects  to  you.  She  is  just  smart  enough  to  select  in 
advance  the  part  that  she  is  willing  for  you  to  have, 
feeling  that  you  will  not  be  captious  about  it." 

"I  have  no  desire  to  exact  anything  of — " 

"Quite  so,  quite  so,"  broke  in  the  lawyer.  "But  she 
could  not  be  expected  to  know  that.  She  is  a  long 
headed  woman,  Mr.  Gwynne.  I  suspect  she  is  consider 
ably  worried  about  Viola.  Your  half-sister  is  being 
rather  assiduously  courted  by  a  young  man  named 
Lapelle.  Mrs.  Gwyn  does  not  approve  of  him.  She 
is  strait-laced  and — er — puritanical." 

"Puritanical,  eh?"  said  Kenneth,  with  a  short  laugh 
that  Mr.  Cornell  totally  misinterpreted. 

"Barry  isn't  exactly  what  you  would  call  sancti 
monious,"  admitted  the  lawyer,  with  a  dry  smile.  "The 
worst  of  it  is,  I'm  afraid  Viola  is  in  love  with  him." 

His  client  was  silent  for  a  moment,  reflecting.  Then 
he  arose  abruptly  and  announced: 

"I  agree  with  you,  Mr.  Cornell.  I  will  go  up  to  see 
her  this  afternoon.  I  bear  her  no  grudge, — and  after 
all,  she  is  my  sister.  Good  day,  sir.  I  shall  give  myself 
the  pleasure  of  calling  in  to  see  you  to-morrow." 


CHAPTER  VIH 

RACHEL     CARTER 

KENNETH  strolled  about  the  town  for  awhile 
before  returning  to  the  tavern  to  shave,  change 
his  boots,  and  "smarten"  himself  up  a  bit  in 
preparation  for  the  ceremonious  call  he  had  dreaded 
to  make.     On  all  sides  he  encountered  the  friendliest 
interest  and  civility  from  the  townspeople.     The  news 
of  his  arrival  had  spread  over  the  place  with  incredi 
ble  swiftness.     Scores  of  absolute  strangers  turned  to 
him  and  tendered  to  him  the  welcome  to  be  found  in  a 
broad  and  friendly  smile. 

Shortly  after  three  o'clock  he  set  forth  upon  his 
new  adventure.  Assailed  by  a  strange  and  unaccus 
tomed  timidity, — he  would  have  called  it  bashfulness 
had  Viola  been  other  than  his  sister — he  approached 
the  young  lady's  home  by  the  longest  and  most  round 
about  way,  a  course  which  caused  him  to  make  the  com 
plete  circuit  of  the  three-acre  pond  situated  a  short 
distance  above  the  public  square — a  shallow  body  of 
water  dignified  during  the  wet  season  of  the  year  by 
the  high-sounding  title  of  "Lake  Stansbury,"  but 
spoken  of  scornfully  as  the  "slough"  after  the  sum 
mer's  sun  had  reduced  its  surface  to  a  few  scattered 
wallows,  foul  and  green  with  scum.  It  was  now  full 
of  water  and  presented  quite  an  imposing  appearance 
to  the  new  citizen  as  he  skirted  its  brush-covered  banks ; 
in  his  ignorance  he  was  counting  the  probability  of  one 
day  building  a  handsome  home  on  the  edge  of  this 

tiny  lake. 

118 


RACHEL    CARTER  119 

A  man  working  in  a  garden  pointed  out  to  him  Mrs. 
Gwyn's  house  half-hidden  among  the  trees  at  the  foot 
of  a  small  slope. 

"That  other  house,  a  couple  of  hundred  foot  fur 
ther  on, — you  can  just  see  it  from  here, — well,  that 
belonged  to  Robert  Gwyn.  I  understand  his  long-lost 
son  is  comin*  to  live  in  it  one  of  these  days.  They  say 
this  boy  when  he  was  a  baby  was  stolen  by  the  Injins 
and  never  heard  of  ag'in  until  a  few  months  ago. 
Lived  with  the  Injins  right  up  to  the  time  he  was  found 
and  couldn't  speak  a  word  of  English.  I  have  heard 
that  he — what  are  ye  laughin'  at,  mister?" 

"I  was  laughing  at  the  thought  of  how  surprised 
you  are  going  to  be  some  day,  my  friend.  Thank  you. 
The  house  with  the  green  window  blinds,  you  say?'* 

He  proceeded  first  to  the  house  that  was  to  be  his 
home.  It  was  a  good  stone's  throw  from  the  pre 
tentious  two-story  frame  structure  in  which  Rachel 
Carter  and  her  daughter  lived,  but  nearer  the  centre 
of  the  town  when  approached  by  a  more  direct  route 
'than  he  had  followed.  This  smaller  house,  an  insig 
nificant,  weather-beaten  story  and  a  half  frame,  snug 
gling  among  the  underbrush,  was  where  his  father  had 
lived  when  he  first  came  to  Lafayette.  Later  on  he 
had  erected  the  larger  house  and  moved  into  it  with 
his  family,  renting  the  older  place  to  a,  man  named 
Turner. 

It  was  faced  by  a  crudely  constructed  picket  fence, 
once  white  but  now  mottled  with  scales  of  dirty  sun- 
blistered  paii^t,  and  inside  the  fence  rank  weeds,  bur 
docks  and  wild  grass  flourished  without  hindrance.  He 
strode  up  the  narrow  path  to  the  low  front  door.  Find 
ing  it  unlocked,  he  opened  it  and  stepped  into  the  low, 
roughly  plastered  sitting-room.  The  window  blinds 


120  VIOLA    GWYN 

were  open,  permitting  light  and  air  to  enter,  and  while 
the  room  was  comparatively  bare,  there  was  ample  evi 
dence  that  it  had  been  made  ready  for  occupancy  by 
a  hand  which,  though  niggardly,  was  well  trained  in 
the  art  of  making  a  little  go  a  long  way.  The  bed 
room  and  the  kitchen  were  in  order.  There  were  rag 
carpets  on  the  floors,  and  the  place  was  immaculately 
clean.  A  narrow,  enclosed  stairway  ran  from  the  end 
of  the  sitting-room  to  the  attic,  where  he  discovered  a 
bed  for  his  servant.  Out  at  the  back  was  the  stable 
and  a  wagonshed.  These  he  did  not  inspect.  A  high 
rail  fence  stretched  between  the  two  yards. 

As  he  walked  up  the  path  to  the  front  door  of  the 
new  house,  he  was  wondering  how  Viola  Gwyn  would 
look  in  her  garb  of  black, — the  hated  black  she  had 
cast  aside  for  one  night  only.  He  was  oppressed  by 
a  dull,  cold  fear,  assuaged  to  some  extent  by  the  thrill 
of  excitement  which  attended  the  adventure.  What 
was  he  to  do  or  say  if  the  door  was  opened  by  Rachel 
Carter?  His  jaw  was  set,  the  palms  of  his  hands  were 
moist,  and  there  was  a  strange,  tight  feeling  about 
his  chest,  as  if  his  lungs  were  full  and  could  not  be 
emptied.  After  a  moment's  hesitation,  he  rapped  firmly 
on  the  door  with  his  bare  knuckles. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  young  coloured  woman 
who  wore  a  blue  sunbonnet  and  carried  a  red  shawl 
over  her  arm. 

"Is  Miss  Viola  at  home?"  he  inquired. 

"Is  dis  Mistah  Gwynne,  suh?" 

"Yes." 

"Come  right  in,  suh,  an*  set  down." 

He  entered  a  small  box  of  a  hallway,  opening  upon 
a  steep  set  of  stairs. 


RACHEL    CARTER  121 

"Right  in  heah,  suh,"  said  the  girl,  throwing  open 
a  door  at  his  left. 

As  he  walked  into  this  room,  he  heard  the  servant 
shuffling  up  the  staircase.  He  deposited  his  hat  and 
gloves  on  a  small  marble-top  table  in  the  centre  of  the 
room  and  then  sent  a  swift  look  of  investigation  about 
him.  Logs  were  smouldering  in  the  deep,  wide  fireplace 
at  the  far  end  of  the  room,  giving  out  little  spurts  of 
flame  occasionally  from  their  charred,  ash-grey  skele 
tons.  The  floor  was  covered  with  a  bright,  new  rag 
carpet,  and  there  was  a  horse-hair  sofa  in  the  corner, 
and  two  or  three  stiff,  round-backed  little  chairs,  the 
seats  also  covered  with  black  horse-hair.  A  thick,  gilt- 
decorated  Holy  Bible  lay  in  the  centre  of  the  marble- 
top  table,  shamed  now  by  contact  with  the  crown  of  his 
unsaintly  hat.  On  the  mantel  stood  a  large,  flat  ma 
hogany  clock  with  floral  decorations  and  a  broad,  white 
face  with  vivid  black  numerals  and  long  black  hands. 
The  walls  were  covered  with  a  gaudy  but  expensive 
paper,  in  which  huge,  indescribable  red  flowers  min 
gled  regularly  with  glaring  green  leaves.  Two 
"mottoes,"  worked  in  red  and  blue  worsted  and  framed 
with  narrow  cross-pieces  of  oak,  hung  suspended  in 
the  corners  beside  the  fireplace.  One  of  them  read 
"God  Bless  Our  Home,"  the  other  a  sombre  line  done 
in  black:  "Faith,  Hope  and  Charity." 

Three  black  oval  oak  frames,  laden  with  stiff  leaves 
that  glistened  under  a  coat  of  varnish,  contained 
faded,  unlovely  portraits, — one  of  a  bewhiskered  man 
wearing  a  tall  beaver  hat  and  a  stiff  black  stock:  an 
other  of  a  sloping-shouldered  woman  with  a  bonnet, 
from  which  a  face,  vague  and  indistinct,  sought  vainly 
to  emerge.  The  third  contained  a  mass  of  dry,  brown 


122  VIOLA    GWYN 

leaves,  some  wisps  of  straw,  and  a  few  colourless  pressed 
blossoms.  On  a  table  in  front  of  one  of  the  two  win 
dows  stood  a  spindling  Dutch  lamp  of  white  and  delft 
blue,  with  a  long,  narrow  chimney.  There  were  two 
candlesticks  on  the  mantel. 

All  these  features  of  the  room  he  took  in  while  he 
stood  beside  the  centre  table,  awaiting  the  entrance 
of  Viola  Gwyn.  He  heard  a  door  open  softly  and  close 
upstairs,  and  then  some  one  descending  the  steps ;  a 
few  words  spoken  in  the  subdued  voice  of  a  woman  and 
the  less  gentle  response  of  the  darky  servant,  who 
mumbled  "Yas'm,"  and  an  instant  later  went  out  by 
the  front  door.  Through  the  window  he  saw  her  go 
down  the  walk,  the  red  shawl  drawn  tightly  about  her 
shoulders. 

He  smiled.  The  clever  Viola  getting  rid  of  the 
servant  so  that  she  could  be  alone  with  him,  he  thought, 
as  he  turned  toward  the  door. 

A  tall  woman  in  black  appeared  in  the  doorway, 
paused  there  for  a  second  or  two,  and  then  advanced 
slowly  into  the  room.  He  felt  the  blood  rush  to  his 
head,  almost  blinding  him.  His  hand  went  out  for 
the  support  of  the  table,  his  body  stiffened  and  sud 
denly  turned  cold.  The  smile  with  which  he  intended 
to  greet  Viola  froze  on  his  lips. 

"God  Al — "  started  to  ooze  from  his  stiff  lips,  but 
the  words  broke  off  sharply  as  the  woman  stopped  a 
few  steps  away  and  regarded  him  steadily,  silently, 
unsmilingly.  He  stood  there  like  a  statue  staring  into 
the  dark,  brilliant  eyes,  sunken  deep  under  the  straight 
black  eyebrows.  Even  in  the  uncertain  light  from  the 
curtained  windows  he  could  see  that  her  face  was  ab 
solutely  colourless, — the  pallor  of  death  seemed  to  have 
been  laid  upon  it.  Swiftly  she  lifted  a  hand  to  her 


RACHEL    CARTER 

throat,  her  eyes  closed  for  a  second  and  then  flew  wide 
open  again,  now  filled  with  an  expression  of  utter  be 
wilderment. 

"Is  it — is  it  you,  Robert?  Is  it  really  you,  or  am 
I — "  she  murmured,  scarcely  above  a  whisper.  Once 
more  she  closed  her  eyes,  tightly ;  as  if  to  shut  out  the 
vision  of  a  ghost, — an  unreal  thing  that  would  not  be 
there  when  she  looked  again. 

The  sound  of  her  voice  released  him  from  the  brief 
spell  of  stupefaction. 

"I  know  you.  I  remember  you.  You  are  Rachel 
Carter,"  he  said  hoarsely. 

She  was  staring  at  him  as  if  fascinated.  Her  lips 
moved,  but  no  sound  issued  from  them. 

He  hesitated  for  an  instant  and  then  turned  to  pick 
up  his  hat  and  gloves.  "I  came  to  see  your  daughter, 
madame, — as  well  you  know.  Permit  me  to  take  my 
departure." 

"You  are  so  like  your — "  she  began  with  an  effort, 
her  voice  deep  and  low  with  emotion.  "So  like  him  I — 
I  was  frightened.  I  thought  he  had — "  She  broke 
off  abruptly,  lowered  her  head  in  an  attempt  to  hide 
from  him  the  trembling  lips  and  chin,  and  to  regain,  if 
possible,  the  composure  that  had  been  so  desperately 
shaken.  "Wait!"  she  cried,  stridently.  "Wait!  Do 
not  go  away.  Give  me  time  to — to — " 

"There  is  no  need  for  us  to  prolong — "  he  began 
in  a  harsh  voice. 

"I  will  not  keep  you  long,"  she  interrupted,  every 
trace  of  emotion  vanishing  like  a  shadow  that  has 
passed.  She  was  facing  him  now,  her  head  erect,  her 
voice  steady.  Her  dark,  cavernous  eyes  were  upon 
him;  he  experienced  an  odd,  indescribable  sensation, — 
as  of  shrinking, — and  without  'being  fully  aware  of 


124*  VIOLA    GWYN 

what  he  was  doing,  replaced  his  hat  upon  the  table,  an 
act  which  signified  involuntary  surrender  on  his  part. 

"Where  is  Viola?"  he  demanded  sternly.  "She  left 
word  for  me  to  come  here.  Where  is  she?'* 

"She  is  not  here,"  said  the  woman. 

He  started.  "You  don't  mean  she  has — has  gone 
away  with — " 

"No.  She  has  gone  over  to  spend  the  afternoon 
with  Effie  Wardlow.  I  will  be  frank  with  you.  This 
is  not  the  time  for  misunderstanding.  She  asked  Isaac 
Stain  to  give  you  that  message  at  my  request, — or 
command,  if  you  want  the  truth.  I  sent  her  away  be 
cause  what  I  have  to  say  to  you  must  be  said  in  pri 
vate.  There  is  no  one  in  the  house  besides  ourselves. 
Will  you  do  me  the  favour  to  be  seated?  Very  well; 
we  will  stand." 

She  turned  away  to  close  the  hall  door.  Then  she 
walked  to  one  of  the  windows  and,  drawing  the  cur 
tain  aside,  swept  the  yard  and  adjacent  roadway  with 
a  long,  searching  look. 

The  strong  light  fell  full  upon  her  face;  its  warmth 
seemed  suddenly  to  paint  the  glow  of  life  upon  her 
pallid  skin.  He  gazed  at  her  intently.  Out  of  the 
past  there  came  to  him  with  startling  vividness  the 
face  of  the  Rachel  Carter  he  had  known.  Despite  the 
fact  that  she  was  now  an  old  woman, — he  knew  that 
she  must  be  at  least  forty-six  or  -seven, — she  was  still 
remarkably  handsome.  She  was  very  tall,  deep-chested, 
and  as  straight  as  an  arrow.  Her  smoothly  brushed 
hair  was  as  black  as  the  raven's  wing.  Time  and  the 
toil  of  long,  hard  hours  had  brought  deep  furrows  to 
her  cheeks,  like  lines  chiselled  in  a  face  of  marble,  but 
they  had  not  broken  the  magnificent  body  of  the  Rachel 
Carter  who  used  to  toss  him  joyously  into  the  air  with 


RACHEL    CARTER  125 

her  strong  young  arms  and  sure  hands.  But  there 
was  left  no  sign  of  the  broad,  rollicking  smile  that 
always  attended  those  gay  rompings.  Her  lips  were 
firm-set,  straight  and  unyielding, — a  hard  mouth 
flanked  by  what  seemed  to  be  absolutely  immovable 
lines.  Her  chin  was  square;  her  nose  firm  and  notice 
ably  "hawk-like"  in  shape;  her  eyes  clear,  brilliant 
and  keenly  penetrating. 

She  faced  him,  standing  with  her  back  to  the  light. 

"Sooner  or  later  we  would  have  had  to  meet,"  she 
said.  "It  is  best  for  both  of  us  to  have  it  over  with 
at  the  very  start." 

"I  suppose  you  are  right,"  said  he  stiffly.  "You 
know  how  I  feel  toward  you,  Rachel  Carter.  There  is 
nothing  either  of  us  can  say  that  will  make  the  situa 
tion  easier  or  harder,  for  that  matter." 

"Yes, — I  understand,"  said  she  calmly.  "You  hate 
me.  You  have  been  brought  up  to  hate  me.  I  do  not 
question  the  verdict  of  those  who  condemned  me,  but 
you  may  as  well  understand  at  once  that  I  do  not  re 
gret  what  I  did  twenty  years  ago.  I  have  not  repented. 
I  shall  never  repent.  We  need  not  discuss  that  side 
of  the  question  any  farther.  You  know  my  history, 
Kenneth  Gwynne.  You  are  the  only  person  in  this 
part  of  the  world  who  does  know  it.  When  the  con 
troversy  first  came  up  over  the  settlement  of  your 
father's  estate,  I  feared  that  you  would  reveal  the 
story  of  my — " 

He  held  up  his  hand,  interrupting  her.  "Permit  me 
to  observe,  Rachel  Carter,  that  for  many  months  after 
being  notified  of  my  father's  death  and  the  fact  that 
he  had  left  me  a  portion  of  his  estate,  I  was  without 
positive  proof  as  to  the  identity  of  the  woman  men 
tioned  in  the  correspondence  as  his  widow.  It  was 


126  VIOLA    GWYN 

not  until  a  copy  of  the  will  was  forwarded  to  me  that 
I  was  sure.  By  that  time  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to 
keep  my  own  counsel.  I  can  say  to  you  now,  Rachel 
Carter,  that  I  do  not  intend  to  rake  up  that  ugly  story. 
I  do  not  make  war  on  helpless  women." 

Her  lips  writhed  slightly,  and  her  eyes  narrowed  as 
if  with  pain.  It  was  but  a  fleeting  exposition  of  vul 
nerability,  however,  for  in  another  instant  she  had  re 
covered. 

"You  could  not  have  struck  harder  than  that  if  you 
had  been  warring  against  a  strong  man,"  she  said 
gently. 

A  hot  flush  stained  his  cheek.  "It  is  the  way  I  feel, 
nevertheless,  Rachel  Carter,"  he  said  deliberately. 

"You  can  think  of  me  only  as  Rachel  Carter,"  she 
said.  "My  name  is  Rachel  Gwyn.  Still  it  doesn't  mat 
ter.  I  am  past  the  point  where  I  can  be  hurt.  You 
may  tell  the  story  if  it  suits  your  purpose.  I  shall 
deny  nothing.  It  may  even  give  you  some  satisfaction 
to  see  me  wrap  my  soiled  robes  about  me  and  steal 
away,  leaving  the  field  to  you.  I  can  sell  my  lands  to 
morrow  and  disappear.  It  will  matter  little  whether 
I  am  forgotten  or  not.  The  world  is  large  and  I  am 
not  without  fortitude.  I  wanted  you  to  come  here  to 
day,  to  see  me  alone,  to  hear  what  I  have  to  say, — 
not  about  myself, — but  about  another.  I  am  a  woman 
of  quick  decisions.  When  I  learned  early  this  morning 
that  you  would  be  in  Lafayette  to-day,  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  take  a  certain  step, — and  I  have  not  changed 
it." 

"If  you  are  referring  to  your  daughter — to  my 
half-sister,  if  you  will — I  have  only  to  remind  you  that 
my  mind  is  already  made  up.  You  need  have  no  fear 
that  I  shall  do  or  say  anything  to  hurt  that  innocen^ 


RACHEL    CARTER  127 

girl.  I  am  assuming,  of  course,  that  she  knows  noth 
ing  of — well,  of  what  happened  back  there  in  Ken 
tucky." 

"She  knows  nothing,"  said  the  woman,  in  a  voice 
strangely  low  and  tense.  "If  she  ever  knew,  she  has 
forgotten." 

"Forgotten?"  he  cried.  "Good  God,  how  could  she 
have  forgotten  a  thing  so — " 

She  moved  a  step  nearer,  her  burning  eyes  fixed  on 
his. 

"You  remember  Rachel  Carter  well  enough.  Have 
you  no  recollection  of  the  little  girl  you  used  to  play 
with?  Minda?  The  babe  who  could  scarcely  toddle 
when  you — " 

"Of  course  I  remember  her,"  he  cried  impatiently. 
"I  remember  everything.  You  took  her  away  with 
you  and — why  did  you  not  leave  her  behind  as  my 
father  left  me?  Why  could  you  not  have  been  as  fair 
to  your  child  as  he  was  to  his?" 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  pondering  her  answer. 
"I  do  not  suppose  it  has  ever  occurred  to  you  that  I 
might  have  loved  my  child  too  deeply  to  abandon  her," 
she  said,  a  strange  softness  in  her  voice. 

"My  father  loved  me,"  he  cried  out,  "and  yet  he 
left  me  behind." 

"He  loved  you, — yes, — but  he  would  not  take  you. 
He  left  you  with  some  one  who  also  loved  you.  Don't 
ever  forget  that,  Kenneth  Gwynne.  I  would  not  go 
without  Minda.  No  more  would  your  mother  have  gone 
without  you.  Stop !  I  did  not  mean  to  offend.  So 
you  do  remember  little  Minda?" 

"Yes,  I  remember  her.  But  she  is  dead.  Why  do 
you  mention  her — " 

"Minda  is  not  dead,"  said  she  slowly. 


128  VIOLA    GWYN 

"Not — why,  she  was  drowned  in  the — " 

"No.  Minda  is  alive.  You  saw  her  last  night, — 
at  Phineas  Striker's  house." 

He  started  violently.  "The  girl  I  saw  last  night  was 
— Minda?"  he  cried.  "Why,  Striker  told  me  she 
was — " 

"I  know, — I  know,"  she  interrupted  impatiently. 
"Striker  told  you  what  he  believed  to  be  true.  He 
told  you  she  was  Robert  Gwyn's  daughter  and  your 
half-sister.  But  I  tell  you  now  that  she  is  Minda 
Carter.  There  is  not  a  drop  of  Gwyn  blood  in  her 
body." 

"Then,  she  is  not  my  half-sister?"  he  exclaimed, 
utterly  dazed,  but  aware  of  the  exquisite  sensation 
of  relief  that  was  taking  hold  of  him. 

"She  is  no  blood  relation  of  yours." 

"But  she  is, — yes,  now  I  understand, — she  is  my 
step-sister,"  he  said,  with  a  swift  fall  of  spirits. 

"I  suppose  that  is  what  you  might  call  her,"  said 
Rachel  Gwyn,  indifferently.  "I  have  not  given  it  much 
thought." 

"Does  she  know  that  she  is  not  my  father's  daugh 
ter?" 

"No.  She  believes  herself  to  be  his  own  flesh  and 
blood, — his  own  daughter,"  said  she  with  the  delib- 
erateness  of  one  weighing  her  words,  that  they  might 
fall  with  full  force  upon  her  listener. 

"Why  are  you  telling  me  all  this?"  he  demanded 
abruptly.  "What  is  your  object?  If  she  does  not 
know  the  truth,  why  should  I?  Good  God,  woman, 
you — you  do  not  expect  me  to  tell  her,  do  you?  Was 
that  your  purpose  in  getting  me  here?  You  want 
me  to  tell  her  that — " 

"No!"  she  cried  out  sharply.     "I  do  not  want  you 


RACHEL    CARTER  129 

or  any  one  else  to  do  that.  Listen  to  me.  I  sha'n't 
beat  about  the  bush, — I  will  not  waste  words.  So  far 
as  Viola  and  the  world  are  concerned,  she  is  Robert 
Gwyn's  daughter.  That  is  clear  to  you,  is  it  not? 
She  was  less  than  two  years  old  when  we  came  away, — 
too  young  to  remember  anything.  We  were  in  the 
wilderness  for  two  or  three  years,  and  she  saw  but 
one  or  two  small  children,  so  that  it  was  a  very  simple 
matter  to  deceive  her  about  her  age.  She  is  nearly 
twenty-two  now,  although  she  believes  she  is  but  nine 
teen.  She  does  not  remember  any  other  father  than 
Robert  Gwyn.  She  has  no  recollection  of  her  own 
father,  nor  does  she  remember  you.  She — " 

"Last  night  she  described  her  father  to  me,'*  he  in 
terrupted.  "Her  supposed  father,  I  mean.  She  made 
it  quite  plain  that  he  did  not  love  her  as  a  father 
should  love  his  own  child." 

"It  was  not  that,"  she  said.  "He  was  afraid  of 
her, — mortally  afraid  of  her.  He  lived  in  dread  of 
the  day  when  she  would  learn  the  truth  and  turn 
upon  him.  He  always  meant  to  tell  her  himself,  and 
yet  he  could  not  find  the  courage.  Toward  the  end 
he  could  not  bear  to  have  her  near  him.  It  would 
not  be  honest  in  me  to  say  that  he  loved  her.  I  do  not 
believe  he  would  have  loved  a  child  if  one  had  come  to 
him  and  me, — no  child  of  mine  could  take  the  place 
you  had  in  his  heart."  She  spoke  with  calm  bitter 
ness.  "You  say  she  told  you  about  him  last  night, 
I  am  not  surprised  that  she  should  have  spoken  of 
him  as  she  did.  It  was  not  possible  for  her  to  love 
him  as  a  father.  Nature  took  good  care  of  that. 
There  was  a  barrier  between  them.  She  was  not  his 
child.  The  tie  of  blood  was  lacking.  Nature  cannot 
be  deceived.  She  has  never  told  me  what  her  true 


130  VIOLA    GWYN 

feelings  toward  him  were,  but  I  have  sensed  them.  I 
could  understand.  I  think  she  is  and  always  has  been 
bewildered.  It  is  possible  that  away  back  in  her 
brain  there  is  something  too  tiny  to  ever  become  a 
thought,  and  yet  it  binds  her  to  a  man  she  does  not 
even  remember.  But  we  are  wasting  time.  You  are 
wondering  why  I  have  told  you  the  truth  about  Viola. 
The  secret  was  safe,  so  why  should  I  reveal  it  to  you, — 
my  enemy, — isn't  that  what  you  are  thinking?" 

"Yes.  I  don't  quite  grasp  your  motive  in  telling 
me,  especially  as  I  am  still  to  look  upon  Viola  as  my 
half-sister.  I  have  already  stated  that  under  no  cir 
cumstances  will  I  hurt  her  by  raking  up  that  old, 
infamous  story.  I  find  myself  in  a  most  difficult  posi 
tion.  She  believes  herself  to  be  my  sister  while  I 
know  that  she  is  not.  It  must  strike  even  you,  Rachel 
Carter,  as  the  ghastliest  joke  that  fate  ever  played 
on  a  man, — or  a  woman,  either." 

"I  have  told  you  the  truth,  because  I  am  as  certain 
as  I  am  that  I  stand  here  now  that  you  would  have 
found  it  all  out  some  day, — some  day  soon,  perhaps. 
In  the  first  place  your  father  did  not  mention  her  in 
his  will.  That  alone  is  enough  to  cause  you  to  won 
der.  You  are  not  the  only  one  who  is  puzzled  by 
his  failure  to  provide  for  her  as  well  as  for  you. 
Before  long  you  would  have  begun  to  doubt,  then 
to  speculate,  and  finally  you  would  have  made  it  your 
business  to  find  out  why  she  was  ignored.  In  time 
you  could  have  unearthed  the  truth.  The  truth  will 
always  out,  as  the  saying  goes.  I  preferred  to  tell 
it  to  you  at  once.  You  understand  I  cannot  exact 
any  promises  from  you.  You  will  do  as  you  see  fit 
in  the  matter.  There  is  one  thing  that  you  must 
realize,  however.  Viola  has  not  robbed  you  of  any- 


RACHEL    CARTER  131 

thing, — not  even  a  father's  love.  She  does  not  profit 
by  his  death.  He  did  not  leave  her  a  farthing,  not 
even  a  spadeful  of  land.  I  am  entitled  to  my  share 
by  law.  The  law  would  have  given  it  to  me  if  he 
had  left  no  will.  I  am  safe.  That  is  clear  to  you,  of 
course.  I  earned  my  share, — I  worked  as  hard  as  he 
did  to  build  up  a  fortune.  When  I  die  my  lands  and 
my  money  will  go  to  my  daughter.  You  need  not 
hope  to  have  any  part  of  them.  I  do  not  ask  you  to 
keep  silent  on  my  account.  I  only  ask  you  to  spare 
her.  If  I  have  sinned, — and  in  the  sight  of  man,  I 
suppose  I  have, — I  alone  should  be  punished.  But  she 
has  not  sinned.  I  have  thought  it  all  out  carefully. 
I  have  lain  awake  till  all  hours  of  the  night,  debating 
what  was  the  best  thing  to  do.  To  tell  you  or  not 
to  tell  you,  that  was  the  question  I  had  to  settle.  This 
morning  I  decided  and  this  is  the  result.  You  know 
everything.  There  is  no  need  for  you  to  speculate. 
There  is  nothing  for  you  to  unravel.  You  know  who 
Viola  is,  you  know  why  she  was  left  out  of  your 
father's  will.  The  point  is  this,  when  all  is  said, — 
she  must  never  know.  She  must  always, — do  you  hear 
me? — she  must  always  look  upon  you  &p  her  brother. 
She  must  never  know  the  truth  about  me.  I  put  her 
happiness,  her  pride,  her  faith,  in  your  hands,  Kenneth 
Gwynne." 

He  had  listened  with  rigid  attention,  marvelling  at 
the  calm,  dispassionate,  unflinching  manner  in  which 
she  stated  her  case  and  Viola's, — indeed,  she  had  stated 
his  own  case  for  him.  Apparently  she  had  not  even 
speculated  on  the  outcome  of  her  revelations ;  she  was 
sure  of  her  ground  before  she  took  the  first  step. 

"There  is  no  other  course  open  to  me,"  he  said,  tak 
ing  up  his  hat.  He  was  very  pale.  "There  is  nothing 


132  VIOLA    GWYN 

more  to  say, — now  or  hereafter.  We  have  had,  I  trust, 
our  last  conversation.  I  hate  you.  I  could  wish  you  all 
the  unhappiness  that  life  can  give,  but  I  am  not  such 
a  beast  as  to  tell  your  daughter  what  kind  of  a  woman 
you  are.  So  there's  the  end.  Good-day,  Rachel  Car 
ter." 

He  turned  away,  his  hand  was  on  the  door-latch, 
before  she  spoke  again. 

"There  is  something  more,"  she  said,  without  moving 
from  the  spot  where  she  had  stood  throughout  the 
recital.  The  same  calm,  cold  voice, — the  same  compell 
ing  manner.  "It  was  my  pleading,  back  in  those  other 
days,  that  finally  persuaded  Robert  Gwyn  to  let  me 
bring  Minda  up  as  his  daughter.  He  was  bitterly 
opposed  to  it  at  first.  He  never  quite  reconciled  him 
self  to  the  deception.  He  did  not  consider  it  being 
honest  with  her.  He  was  as  firm  as  a  rock  on  one 
point,  however.  He  would  bring  her  up  as  his  daugh 
ter,  but  he  would  not  give  her  his  name.  It  was 
after  he  agreed  to  my  plan  that  he  changed  the  spelling 
of  his  own  name.  She  was  not  to  have  his  name, — 
the  name  he  had  given  his  own  child.  That  was  his 
real  reason  for  changing  his  name,  and  not,  as  you 
may  suspect,  to  avoid  being  traced  to  this  strange 
land." 

"A  belated  attempt  to  be  fair  to  me,  I  suppose,"  he 
said,  ironically. 

"As  you  like,"  she  said,  without  resentment.  "In 
the  beginning,  as  I  have  told  you,  he  believed  it  to  be 
his  duty  to  tell  her  the  truth  about  herself.  He  was 
sincere  in  that.  But  he  did  not  have  the  heart  to  tell 
her  after  years  had  passed.  Now  let  me  tell  you 
what  he  did  a  few  weeks  before  he  passed  away, — and 
you  will  know  what  a  strange  man  he  was.  He  came 


RACHEL    CARTER  133 

I 
home  one  day  and  said  to  me:  'I  have  put  Viola's  case 

in  the  hands  of  Providence.  You  may  call  it  luck  or 
chance,  if  you  like,  but  I  call  it  Providence.  I  cannot 
go  to  her  face  to  face  and  tell  her  the  truth  by  word 
of  mouth,  but  I  have  told  her  the  whole  story  in  writ 
ing.'  I  was  shocked,  and  cried  out  to  know  if  he 
had  written  to  her  in  St.  Louis.  He  smiled  and  shook 
his  head.  'No,  I  have  not  done  that.  I  have  written 
it  all  out  and  I  have  hidden  the  paper  in  a  place  where 
she  is  not  likely  to  ever  find  it, — where  I  am  sure  she 
will  never  look.  I  will  not  even  tell  you  where  it  is 
hidden, — for  I  do  not  trust  you, — no,  not  even  you. 
You  would  seek  it  out  and  destroy  it.'  How  well  he 
knew  me!  Then  he  went  on  to  say,  and  I  shall  never 
forget  the  solemn  way  in  which  he  spoke :  'I  leave  it  all 
with  Providence.  It  is  out  of  my  hands.  If  she  ever 
comes  across  the  paper  it  will  be  a  miracle, — and 
miracles  are  not  the  work  of  man.  So  it  will  be 
God  Himself  who  reveals  the  truth  to  her.*  Now  you 
can  see,  Kenneth,  that  the  secret  is  not  entirely  in 
our  keeping.  There  is  always  the  chance  that  she 
may  stumble  upon  that  paper.  I  live  in  great  dread. 
My  hope  now  is  that  you  will  find  it  some  day  and 
destroy  it.  I  have  searched  in  every  place  that  I 
can  think  of.  I  confess  to  that.  It  is  hidden  on 
land  that  some  day  will  belong  to  Viola, — that  much 
he  confided  to  me.  It  is  not  on  the  land  belonging 
to  you, — nor  in  your  house  over  there." 

"You  are  right,"  he  said,  deeply  impressed.  "There 
is  always  the  chance  that  it  will  come  to  light.  There 
is  no  telling  how  many  times  a  day  she  may  be  within 
arm's  length  of  that  paper, — perhaps  within  inches 
of  it.  It  is  uncanny." 

He  cast  a  swift,  searching  look  about  the  room,  as 


134*  VIOLA    GWYN 

if  in  the  hope  that  his  eyes  might  unexpectedly  alight 
upon  the  secret  hiding  place. 

"He  could  not  have  hidden  it  in  this  house  without 
my  knowing  it,"  she  said,  divining  his  thought. 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  frowning  reflectively. 
"Are  you  sure  that  no  one  else  knows  that  she  is  not 
his  daughter?" 

"I  am  sure  of  it,"  she  replied  with  decision. 

"And  there  is  nothing  more  you  have  to  tell  me?" 

"Nothing.     You  may  go  now." 

Without  another  word  he  left  her.  He  was  not  sur 
prised  by  her  failure  to  mention  the  early  morning 
episode  at  Striker's  cabin.  His  concluding  question 
had  opened  the  way;  it  was  clear  that  she  had  no 
intention  of  discussing  with  him  the  personal  affairs 
of  her  daughter.  Nevertheless  he  was  decidedly  irri 
tated.  What  right  had  she  to  ask  him  to  accept'Viola 
as  a  sister  unless  she  was  also  willing  to  grant  him 
the  privileges  and  interests  of  a  brother?  Certainly 
if  Viola  was  to  be  his  sister  he  ought  to  have  some 
thing  to  say  about  the  way  she  conducted  herself, — for 
the  honour  of  the  family  if  for  no  other  reason. 

As  he  walked  rapidly  away  from  the  house  in  the 
direction  of  Main  Street,  he  experienced  a  sudden  sense 
of  exaltation.  Viola  was  not  his  sister!  As  suddenly 
came  the  reaction,  and  with  it  stark  realization.  Viola 
could  never  be  anything  to  him  except  a  sister. 


CHAPTER  IX 

BROTHER  AND  SISTER 

A  he  turned  into  Main  Street  he  espied  the  figure 
of  a  woman  coming  toward  him  from  the  direc 
tion  of  the  public  Square.  She  was  perhaps  a 
hundred  yards  farther  down  the  street  and  was  pick 
ing  her  way  gingerly,  mincingly,  along  the  narrow 
path  at  the  roadside.  His  mind  was  so  fully  occupied 
with  thoughts  of  a  most  disturbing  character  that  he 
paid  no  attention  to  her,  except  to  note  that  she  was 
dressed  in  black  and  that  in  holding  her  voluminous 
skirt  well  off  the  ground  to  avoid  the  mud-puddles, 
she  revealed  the  bottom  of  a  white,  beruffled  petti 
coat. 

His  meditations  were  interrupted  and  his  interest 
suddenly  aroused  when  he  observed  that  she  had  stopped 
stock-still  in  the  path.  After  a  moment,  she  turned 
and  walked  rapidly,  with  scant  regard  for  the  puddles, 
in  the  direction  from  which  she  had  come.  Fifteen 
or  twenty  paces  down  the  road,  she  came  to  what 
was  undoubtedly  a  path  or  "short  cut"  through  the 
wood.  Into  this  she  turned  hastily  and  was  lost  to 
view  among  the  trees  and  hazel-brush. 

He  had  recognized  her, — or  rather  he  had  divined 
who  she  was.  He  quickened  his  pace,  bent  upon  over 
taking  her.  Then,  with  the  thrill  of  the  hunter,  he 
abruptly  whirled  and  retraced  his  steps.  With  the 
backwoodsman's  cunning  he  hastened  over  the  ground 

he  had  already  traversed,  chuckling  in  anticipation  of 

135 


136  VIOLA   GWYN 

her  surprise  when  she  found  him  waiting  for  her  at 
the  other  end  of  the  "short  cut." 

He  had  noticed  a  path  opening  into  the  woods  at  a 
point  almost  opposite  his  own  house,  and  naturally 
assumed  that  it  was  the  one  she  was  now  pursuing 
in  order  to  avoid  an  encounter  with  him.  His  long 
legs  carried  him  speedily  to  the  outlet  and  there  he 
posted  himself.  He  could  hear  her  coming  through 
the  brush,  although  her  figure  was  still  obscured  by 
the  tangle  of  wildwood;  the  snapping  of  dead  twigs 
under  her  feet;  the  scuffling  of  last  year's  leaves  on 
the  path,  now  wet  and  plastered  with  mud  and  the 
slime  of  winter;  the  swish  of  branches  as  she  thrust 
them  aside. 

She  emerged,  breathless,  into  a  little  open  spot,  not 
twenty  feet  away,  and  stopped  to  listen,  looking  back 
through  the  trees  and  underbrush  to  see  if  she  was 
being  followed.  Her  skirts  were  drawn  up  almost  to 
the  knees  and  pinched  closely  about  her  grey-stock 
inged  legs.  He  gallantly  turned  away  and  pretended  to 
be  studying  the  house  across  the  road.  Presently  he 
felt  his  ears  burning ;  he  turned  to  meet  the  onslaught 
of  her  scornful,  convicting  eyes. 

She  had  not  moved.  Her  hands,  having  released 
the  petticoat,  were  clenched  at  her  sides.  Her  cheeks 
were  crimson,  and  her  dark  eyes,  peering  out  from  the 
shade  of  the  close-fitting  hood  of  her  black  bonnet, 
smouldered  with  wrath, — and,  if  he  could  have  read 
them  better,  a  very  decided  trace  of  maidenly  dismay. 

"Ah,  there  you  are,"  he  cried,  lifting  his  hat.  "I 
was  wondering  whether  you  would  come  out  at  this — " 

"Can't  you  see  I  am  trying  to  avoid  you?"  she  de 
manded  with  extreme  frigidity. 

"I  rather  fancied  you  were,"  said  he  easily.     "So  I 


BROTHER   AND    SISTER          137 

hurried  back  here  to  head  you  off.  I  trust  you  will 
not  turn  around  and  run  the  other  way,  now  that  I 
have  almost  trapped  you.  Because  if  you  do,  I  shall 
catch  up  with  you  in  ten  jumps." 

"I  wish  you  would  go  away,"  she  cried.  "I  don't! 
want  to  see  you, — or  talk  to  you." 

"Then  why  did  you  leave  word  for  me  to  come  to 
your  house  to  see  you?"  he  challenged. 

"I  suspect  you  know  by  this  time,"  she  replied,  sig 
nificantly. 

He  hesitated,  regarding  her  with  some  uneasiness. 
"What  do  you  mean?"  he  fenced. 

"Well,  you  surely  know  that  it  was  my  mother  who 
wanted  to  see  you,  and  not  I,"  she  said,  almost  inso 
lently.  "Are  you  going  to  keep  me  standing  here  in  the 
mud  and  slush  all  day  ?" 

"No,  indeed,"  he  said.    "Please  come  out." 

"Not  until  you  go  away." 

"Why  don't  you  want  to  talk  to  me?  What  have  I 
done?" 

"You  know  very  well  what  you  have  done,"  she  cried, 
hotly.  "In  the  first  place,  I  don't  like  you.  You 
have  made  it  very  unpleasant  for  my  mother, — who 
certainly  has  never  done  you  any  harm.  In  the  sec 
ond  place,  I  resent  your  interference  in  my  affairs. 
Wait!  Do  not  interrupt  me,  please.  Maybe  you  have 
not  exactly  interfered  as  yet,  but  you  are  determined 
to  do  so, — for  the  honour  of  the  family,  I  suppose." 
She  spoke  scathingly.  "I  defy  you, — and  mother,  too. 
I  am  not  a  child  to  be — " 

"I  must  interrupt  you,"  he  exclaimed.  "I  haven't 
the  slightest  idea  what  you  are  talking  about." 

"Don't  lie,"  she  cried,  stamping  her  foot.  "Give 
me  credit  for  a  little  intelligence.  Don't  you  suppose 


138  VIOLA    GWYN 

I  know  what  mother  wanted  to  see  you  about  ?  There ! 
I  can  see  the  guilty  look  in  your  eyes.  You  two 
have  been  putting  your  heads  together,  in  spite  of 
all  the  ill-will  you  bear  each  other,  and  there  is  no 
use  in  denying  it.  I  am  a  naughty  little  girl  and  my 
big  brother  has  been  called  in  to  put  a  stop  to  my 
foolishness.  If  you —  What  are  you  laughing  at,  Mr. 
Gwynne?"  she  broke  off  to  demand  furiously. 

"I  am  laughing  at  you,"  he  replied,  succinctly.  "You 
are  like  a  little  girl  in  a  tantrum, — all  over  nothing 
at  all.  Little  girls  in  tantrums  are  always  amusing, 
but  not  always  naughty.  Permit  me  to  assure  you 
that  your  mother  and  I  have  not  discussed  your  in 
teresting  affair  with  Mr.  Lapelle.  We  talked  of  busi 
ness  mat — " 

"Then,"  she  cried,  "how  do  you  happen  to  know 
anything  about  Mr.  Lapelle  and  me  ?  Aha !  You're  not 
as  clever  as  you  think  you  are.  That  slipped  out, 
didn't  it?  Now  I  know  you  were  discussing  my  affairs 
and  nothing  else.  Well,  what  is  the  verdict  ?  What  are 
you  going  to  do  to  me?  Lock  me  in  my  room,  or  tie 
me  hand  and  foot,  or —  Please  stay  where  you  are. 
It  is  not  necessary  to  come  any  nearer,  Mr.  Gwynne." 

He  continued  his  advance  through  the  thicket,  unde 
terred  by  the  ominous  light  in  her  eyes.  She  stood 
her  ground. 

"I  think  we  had  better  talk  the  matter  over  quietly, 
— Viola,"  he  said,  affecting  sternness.  "We  can't  stand 
here  shouting  at  each  other.  It  is  possible  we  may 
never  have  another  chance  to  converse  freely.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  I  do  not  intend  to  thrust  myself  upon 
you  or  your  mother.  That  is  understood,  I  hope.  We 
have  nothing  in  common  and  I  daresay  we  can  go 
our  own  ways  without  seriously  inconveniencing 


BROTHER    AND    SISTER         139 

one  another.  I  want  you  to  know,  however,  that  I 
went  to  that  house  over  there  this  afternoon  because 
I  thought  you  wanted  to  consult  with  me  about  some 
thing.  I  was  prepared  to  help  you,  or  to  advise  you, 
or  to  do  anything  you  wanted  me  to  do.  You  were 
not  there.  I  felt  at  first  that  you  had  played  me  a 
rather  shabby  trick.  Your  mother, — my  step-mother, 
— got  me  there  under  false  pretences,  solely  for  the 
purpose  of  straightening  out  a  certain  matter  in  con 
nection  with  the — well,  the  future.  She  doubtless  real 
ized  that  I  would  not  have  come  on  her  invitation,  so 
she  used  you  as  a  decoy.  In  any  event,  I  am  now 
glad  that  I  saw  her  and  talked  matters  over.  It  does 
not  mean  that  we  shall  ever  be  friendly,  but  we  at 
least  understand  each  other.  For  your  information  I 
will  state  that  your  mother  did  not  refer  to  the  affair 
at  Striker's,  nor  did  I.  I  know  all  about  it,  however. 
I  know  that  you  went  out  there  to  meet  Lapelle.  You 
planned  to  run  away  with  him  and  get  married.  I 
may  add  that  it  is  a  matter  in  which  I  have  not  the 
slightest  interest.  If  you  want  to  marry  him,  all  well 
and  good.  Do  so.  I  shall  not  offer  any  objection  as 
a  brother  or  as  a  counsellor.  If  you  were  to  ask  for 
my  honest  opinion,  however,  I  should — " 

"I  am  not  asking  for  it,"  she  cried,  cuttingly. 

" — I  should  advise  you  to  get  married  in  a  more 
or  less  regular  sort  of  way  in  your  mother's  home.5* 

"Thank  you  for  the  advice,"  she  said,  curtly.  "I 
shall  get  married  when  and  where  I  please, — and  to 
whom  I  please,  Mr.  Gwynne." 

"In  view  of  the  fact  that  I  am  your  brother,  Viola, 
I  would  suggest  that  you  call  me  Kenneth." 

"I  have  no  desire  to  claim  you  as  a  brother,  or  to 
recognize  you  as  one,"  said  she. 


140  VIOLA    GWYN 

He  smiled.  "With  all  my  heart  I  deplore  the  evil 
fate  that  makes  you  a  sister  of  mine." 

She  was  startled.  "That — that  doesn't  sound  very 
— pretty,"  she  said,  a  trifle  dashed. 

"The  God's  truth,  nevertheless.  At  any  rate,  so 
long  as  you  have  to  be  my  sister,  I  rejoice  in  the  fact 
that  you  are  an  extremely  pretty  one.  It  is  a  great 
relief.  You  might  have  turned  out  to  be  a  scarecrow. 
I  don't  mind  confessing  that  last  night  I  said  to  my 
self,  'There  is  the  most  beautiful  girl  in  all  the  world,' 
aad  I  can't  begin  to  tell  you  how  shocked  I  was  this 
morning  when  Striker  informed  me  that  you  were  my 
half-sister.  He  knocked  a  romantic  dream  into  a 
cocked  hat, — and —  But  even  so,  sister  or  no  sister, 
Viola,  you  still  remain  beyond  compare  the  loveliest 
girl  I  have  ever  seen." 

There  was  something  in  his  eyes  that  caused  her 
own  to  waver, — something  that  by  no  account  could 
be  described  as  brotherly.  She  looked  away,  suddenly 
timid  and  confused.  It  was  something  she  had  seen 
in  Barry  Lapelle's  eyes,  and  in  the  eyes  of  other  ardent 
men.  She  was  flustered  and  a  little  distressed. 

"I — I — if  you  mean  that,"  she  said,  nervously,  "I 
suppose  I — ought  to  feel  flattered." 

"Of  course,  I  mean  it, — but  you  need  not  feel  flat 
tered.  Truth  is  no  form  of  flattery." 

She  had  recovered  herself.  "Who  told  you  about 
Barry  Lapelle  and  me?"  she  demanded. 

"You  mean  about  last  night's  adventure?"  he  coun 
tered,  a  trifle  maliciously. 

She  coloured.  "I  suppose  some  one  has —  Oh,  well, 
it  doesn't  matter.  I  sha'n't  ask  you  to  betray  the 
sneak  who — " 

"Tut,  tut,  my  dear  Viola !    You  must  not — " 


BROTHER    AND    SISTER          141 

"Don't  call  me  your  dear  Viola!" 

"Well,  then,  my  dear  sister, — surely  you  cannot  ex 
pect  me  to  address  you  as  Miss  Gwyn?"  in  mild  sur 
prise. 

"Just  plain  Viola,  if  you  must  have  a  name  for  me." 

"That's  better,"  said  he,  approvingly. 

"Whoever  told  you  was  a  sneak,"  she  said,  wrath- 
fully.  She  turned  her  face  away,  but  not  quickly 
enough  to  prevent  his  seeing  her  chin  quiver  slightly. 

"At  any  rate,  it  was  not  your  mother,"  he  said.  "I 
have  Striker's  permission  to  expose  what  you  call  his 
treachery.  He  thought  it  was  his  duty  to  tell  me 
under  the  circumstances.  And  while  I  am  about  it, 
I  may  as  well  say  that  I  think  you  conspired  to  take 
a  pretty  mean  advantage  of  those  good  and  faithful 
friends.  You  deceived  them  in  a  most  outrageous 
manner.  It  wasn't  very  thoughtful  or  generous  of  you, 
Viola.  You  might  have  got  them  into  very  serious 
trouble  with  your  mother, — who,  I  understand,  holds 
the  mortgage  on  their  little  farm  and  could  make  it 
extremely  unpleasant  for  them  if  she  felt  so  inclined." 

She  was  staring  at  him  in  wide-eyed  astonishment, 
her  red  lips  slightly  parted.  She  could  not  believe  her 
ears.  Why,  he  was  actually  scolding  her!  She  was 
being  reprimanded!  He  was  calmly,  deliberately  re 
proving  her,  as  if  she  were  a  mischievous  child !  Amaze 
ment  deprived  her  momentarily  of  the  power  of  speech. 

"To  be  sure,"  he  went  on  reflectively,  "I  can  appre 
ciate  the  extremities  to  which  you  were  driven.  The 
course  of  true  love  was  not  running  very  smoothly. 
No  doubt  your  mother  was  behaving  abominably. 
Mothers  frequently  do  behave  that  way.  This  young 
man  of  yours  may  be, — and  I  devoutly  hope  he  is, — 
a  very  worthy  fellow,  one  to  whom  your  mother  ought 


142  VIOLA    GWYN 

to  be  proud  and  happy  to  see  you  married.  In  view 
of  her  stand  in  the  matter,  I  will  go  so  far  as  to  say 
that  you  were  probably  doing  the  right  thing  in  run 
ning  away  from  home  to  be  married.  I  think  I  men 
tioned  to  you  last  night  that  I  am  of  a  very  romantic 
nature.  Lord  bless  you,  I  have  lain  awake  many  a 
night  envying  the  dauntless  gentlemen  of  feudal  days 
who  bore  their  sweethearts  away  in  gallant  fashion 
pursued  by  ferocious  fathers  and  a  score  or  more  of 
blood-thirsty  henchmen.  Ah,  that  was  the  way  for 
me!  With  my  lady  fair  seated  in  front  of  me  upon 
the  speeding  palfrey,  my  body  between  her  and  the 
bullets  and  lances  and  bludgeons  of  countless  pursuers  I 
Zounds !  Oddsblood !  Gadzooks  !  and  so  forth !  Not 
any  of  this  stealing  away  in  the  night  for  me !  Ah,  me ! 
How  different  we  are  in  these  prosaic  days !  But,  even 
so,  if  I  were  you,  the  next  time  I  undertake  to  run 
aw.ay  with  the  valiant  Mr.  Lapelle  I  should  see  to  it 
that  he  does  his  part  in  the  good  old-fashioned  way. 
And  I  should  not  drag  such  loyal,  honest  folk  as 
Striker  and  his  wife  into  the  business  and  then  ride 
merrily  off,  leaving  them  to  pay  the  Piper." 

His  heart  smote  him  as  he  saw  her  eyes  fill  with 
tears.  He  did  not  mistake  them  for  tears  of  shame 
or  contrition, — far  from  it,  he  knew  they  were  born 
of  speechless  anger.  He  had  hurt  her  sorely,  even 
deliberately,  and  he  was  overcome  by  a  sudden  charge 
of  compassion — and  regret.  He  wanted  to  comfort 
her,  he  wanted  to  say  something, — anything, — to  take 
away  the  sting  of  chastisement. 

He  was  not  surprised  when  she  swept  by  him,  her 
head  high,  her  cheeks  white  with  anger,  her  stormy 
eyes  denying  him  even  so  much  as  a  look  of  scorn. 
He  stood  aside,  allowing  her  to  pass,  and  remained 


BROTHER    AND    SISTER          143 

motionless,  gazing  after  her  until  she  turned  in  at  her 
own  gate  and  was  lost  to  view.  He  shook  his  head 
dubiously  and  sighed. 

"Little  Minda,"  he  mused,  under  his  breath.  "You 
were  my  playmate  once  upon  a  time, — and  now !  Now 
what  are  you?  A  rascal's  sweetheart,  if  all  they  say 
is  true.  Gad,  how  beautiful  you  are!"  He  was  walk 
ing  slowly  through  the  path,  his  head  bent,  his  eyes 
clouded  with  trouble.  "And  how  you  are  hating  me 
at  this  moment.  What  a  devil's  mess  it  all  is!"  , 

His  eye  fell  upon  something  white  lying  at  the  edge 
of  the  path  a  few  feet  ahead.  It  was  a  neatly  folded 
sheet  of  note  paper.  He  stood  looking  down  at  it  for 
a  moment.  She  must  have  dropped  it  as  she  came 
through.  It  was  clean  and  unsoiled.  A  message,  per 
haps,  from  Barry  Lapelle,  smuggled  to  her  through  the 
connivance  of  a  friendly  go-between, — the  girl  she  had 
gone  to  visit,  what  was  her  name?  He  stooped  to  pick 
it  up,  but  before  his  fingers  touched  it  he  straightened 
up  and  deliberately  moved  it  with  the  toe  of  his  boot 
to  a  less  exposed  place  among  the  bushes,  where  he 
would  have  failed  to  see  it  in  passing.  Then  he  strode 
resolutely  away  without  so  much  as  a  glance  over  his 
shoulder,  and,  coming  to  the  open  road,  stepped  briskly 
off  in  the  direction  of  the  public  Square.  His  conscience 
would  have  rejoiced  had  he  betrayed  it  by  secreting 
himself  among  the  bushes  for  a  matter  of  five  minutes, — 
quaint  paradox,  indeed! — for  he  would  have  seen  her 
steal  warily,  anxiously  into  the  thicket  in  search  of 
the  lost  missive, — and  he  would  have  been  further  ex 
alted  by  the  little  cry  of  relief  that  fell  from  her  lips 
as  she  snatched  it  up  and  sped  incontinently  homeward, 
as  if  pursued  by  all  the  eyes  in  Christendom. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  not  a  letter  from  Barry 


144  VIOLA    GWYN 

to  Viola.  It  was  the  other  way  round.  She  had  written 
him  a  long  letter  absolving  herself  from  blame  in  the 
contretemps  of  the  night  before,  at  the  same  time  con 
fessing  that  she  was  absolutely  in  the  dark  as  to  how 
her  mother  had  found  out  about  their  plans.  Suffice 
to  say,  she  had  found  out  early  in  the  evening  and, 
to  employ  her  own  words,  "You  know  the  result."  Then 
she  went  on  to  say  that,  all  things  considered,  she  was 
now  quite  sure  she  could  never,  never  consent  to  make 
another  attempt. 

"I  am  positive,"  she  wrote,  ingenuously,  "that  mother 
will  relent  in  time,  and  then  we  can  be  married  without 
going  to  so  much  trouble  about  it."  Farther  on  she 
admitted  that,  "Mother  is  very  firm  about  it  now,  but 
when  she  realizes  that  I  am  absolutely  determined  to 
marry  you,  I  am  sure  she  will  give  in  and  all  will  be 
well."  At  the  end  she  said:  "For  the  present,  Barry 
dear,  I  think  you  had  better  not  come  to  the  house. 
She  feels  very  bitter  toward  you  after  last  night.  We 
can  see  each  other  at  Effie's  and  other  places.  After 
all,  she  has  had  a  great  sorrow  and  she  is  so  very  un 
happy  that  I  ought  not  to  hurt  her  in  any  way  if  I 
can  help  it.  I  love  you,  but  I  also  love  her.  Please 
be  kind  and  reasonable,  dear,  and  do  not  think  I  am 
losing  heart.  I  am  just  as  determined  as  ever.  Noth 
ing  can  change  me.  You  believe  that,  don't  you,  Barry 
dear?  I  know  how  impulsive  you  are  and  how  set  in 
your  ways.  Sometimes  you  really  frighten  me  but  I 
know  it  is  because  you  love  me  so  much.  You  must 
not  do  anything  rash.  It  would  spoil  everything. 
I  do  wish  you  would  stay  away  from  that  awful 
place  down  by  the  river.  Mother  would  feel 
differently  toward  you,  I  know,  if  you  were  not 
there  so  much.  She  knows  the  men  play  cards  there 


BROTHER    AND    SISTER         145 

for  money  and  drink  and  swear.  I  believe  you  will 
keep  your  promise  never  to  touch  a  drop  of  whiskey 
after  we  are  married,  but  when  I  told  her  that  she 
only  laughed  at  me.  By  this  time  you  must  know  that 
my  brother  has  come  to  Lafayette.  He  arrived  this 
morning.  He  knows  nothing  about  what  happened  last 
night  but  I  am  afraid  mother  will  tell  him  when  she 
sees  him  to-day.  It  would  not  surprise  me  if  they  bury 
the  hatchet  and  join  hands  and  try  to  make  a  good 
little  girl  out  of  me.  I  think  he  is  quite  a  prim  young 
man.  He  spent  the  night  at  Striker's  and  I  saw  him 
there.  I  must  say  he  is  good-looking.  He  is  so  good- 
looking  that  nobody  would  ever  suspect  that  he  is  re 
lated  to  me."  She  signed  herself,  "Your  loving  and 
devoted  and  loyal  Viola." 

She  had  been  unable  to  get  the  letter  to  him  that 
day,  and  for  a  very  good  reason.  Her  messenger, 
Effie  Wardlow's  young  brother,  reached  the  tavern 
just  in  time  to  see  Barry  emerge,  quite  tipsy  and  in  a 
vile  temper,  arguing  loudly  with  Jack  Trentman  and 
Syd  Budd,  the  town's  most  notorious  gamblers. 

The  three  men  went  off  toward  the  ferry.  The  lad 
very  sensibly  decided  this  was  no  time  to  deliver  a  love 
letter  to  Mr.  Lapelle,  so  forthwith  returned  it  to  the 
sender,  who,  after  listening  bleakly  to  a  somewhat  har 
rowing  description  of  her  lover's  unsteady  legs  and  the 
direction  in  which  they  carried  him,  departed  for  home 
fully  convinced  that  something  dreadful  was  going  to 
happen  to  Barry  and  that  she  would  be  to  blame  for  it. 

Halfway  home  she  decided  that  her  mother  was 
equally  if  not  more  to  blame  than  she,  and,  upon  catch 
ing  sight  of  her  lordly,  self-satisfied  brother,  acquitted 
herself  of  all  responsibility  and  charged  everything  to 
her  meddling  relatives.  Her  encounter  with  the  exas- 


146  VIOLA   GWYN 

perating  Kenneth,  however,  served  to  throw  a  new  and 
most  unwelcome  light  upon  the  situation.  It  was  a 
shabby  trick  to  play  upon  the  Strikers.  She  had  not 
thought  of  it  before.  And  how  she  hated  him  for  mak 
ing  her  think  of  it ! 

The  first  thing  she  did  upon  returning  to  the  house 
with  the  recovered  letter  was  to  proceed  to  the  kitchen, 
where,  after  reading  it  over  again,  she  consigned  it 
to  the  flames.  She  was  very  glad  it  had  not  been  de 
livered  to  Barry.  The  part  of  it  referring  to  the 
"place  down  by  the  river"  would  have  to  be  treated 
with  a  great  deal  more  firmness  and  decision.  That 
was  something  she  would  have  to  speak  very  plainly 
about. 

By  this  time  she  had  reached  the  conclusion  that 
Barry  was  to  blame  for  that,  and  that  nothing  more 
terrible  could  happen  to  him  than  a  severe  headache, — 
an  ailment  to  which  he  was  accustomed  and  which  he 
treated  very  lightly  in  excusing  himself  when  she  took 
him  to  task  for  his  jolly  lapses.  "All  red-blooded  fel 
lows  take  a  little  too  much  once  in  a  while,"  he  had 
said,  more  than  once. 


CHAPTER  X 

MOTHER    AND    DAUGHTER 

RACHEL  GWYN  was  seated  at  the  parlor  win 
dow  when  Viola  entered  the  house.  She  was 
there  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  later  when  her 
daughter  came  downstairs. 

"May  I  have  a  word  with  you,  mother?"  said  the 
girl,  from  the  doorway,  after  waiting  a  moment  for 
her  mother  to  take  some  notice  of  her  presence. 

She  spoke  in  a  very  stiff  and  formal  manner,  for 
there  had  been  no  attempt  on  the  part  of  either  to 
make  peace  since  the  trying  experiences  of  early  morn 
ing.  Viola  had  sulked  all  day,  while  her  mother  pre 
served  a  stony  silence  that  remained  unbroken  up  to 
the  time  she  expressed  a  desire  to  be  alone  with  Ken 
neth  when  he  called. 

Apparently  Mrs.  Gwyn  did  not  hear  Viola's  question. 
The  girl  advanced  a  few  steps  into  the  room  and 
stopped  again  to  regard  the  motionless,  unresponsive 
figure  at  the  window.  Mrs.  Gwyn's  elbow  was  on  the 
sill,  her  chin  resting  in  the  hand.  Apparently  she  was 
deaf  to  all  sound  inside  the  room. 

A  wave  of  pity  swept  over  Viola.  All  in  an  instant 
her  rancour  took  flight  and  in  its  place  came  a  longing 
to  steal  over  and  throw  her  arms  about  those  bent 
shoulders  and  whisper  words  of  remorse.  Desolation 
hung  over  that  silent,  thinking  figure.  Viola's  heart 
swelled  with  renewed  anger  toward  Kenneth  Gwynne. 

147 


148  VIOLA    GWYN 

What  had  he  said  or  done  to  wound  this  stony,  indomi 
table  mother  of  hers? 

The  room  was  cold.  The  fire  had  died  down;  only 
the  huge  backlog  showed  splotches  of  red  against  the 
charred  black;  in  front  of  it  were  the  faintly  smoking 
ashes  of  a  once  sprightly  blaze.  She  shivered,  and  then, 
moved  by  a  sudden  impulse,  strode  softly  over  and  took 
down  from  its  peg  beside  the  fireplace  the  huge  turkey 
wing  used  in  blowing  the  embers  to  life.  She  was  vigor 
ously  fanning  the  backlog  when  a  sound  from  behind 
indicated  that  her  mother  had  risen  from  the  chair. 
She  smiled  as  she  glanced  over  her  shoulder. 

Her  mother  was  standing  with  one  of  her  hands 
pressed  tightly  to  her  eyes.  Her  lips  were  moving. 

"He  is  Robert — Robert  himself,"  she  was  murmuring. 
"As  like  as  two  peas.  I  was  afraid  he  might  be — 
would  be — "  The  words  trailed  off  into  a  mumble,  for 
she  had  lowered  her  hand  and  was  staring  in  dull  sur 
prise  at  Viola. 

"What  is  it,  mother?"  cried  the  girl,  alarmed  by  the 
other's  expression.  "What  were  you  saying?" 

After  a  moment  her  mother  said,  quite  calmly:  "Oh, 
it's  you,  is  it?  When  did  you  get  home?" 

"A  few  minutes  ago.  How  cold  it  is!  The  fire  is 
almost  out.  Shall  I  get  some  kindling  and  start  it  up  ?" 

"Yes.    I  don't  know  how  I  came  to  let  it  go  down." 

When  Viola  returned  from  the  kitchen  with  the 
fagots  and  a  bunch  of  shavings,  the  older  woman  was 
standing  in  front  of  the  fireplace  staring  moodily  down 
at  the  ashes.  She  moved  to  one  side  while  her  daughter 
laid  the  kiadling  and  placed  three  or  four  sticks  of 
firewood  upem  the  heap.  Not  a  word  was  spoken  until 
after  Viola  had  fanned  a  tiny  flame  out  of  the  embers 
and  lighted  the  shavings  with  a  spill. 


MOTHER    AND    DAUGHTER      149 

"I  met  my  brother  out  there  in  the  grove,"  said  she, 
arising  and  brushing  the  wood  dust  from  her  hands. 

"Yes?" 

"I  thought  maybe  you  and  he  had  been  discussing 
Barry  Lapelle  and  me  and  what  happened  last  night, 
so  I  started  to  give  him  a  piece  of  my  mind,"  said  Viola, 
crimsoning. 

A  faint  smile  played  about  the  corners  of  Mrs. 
Gwyn's  lips.  "I  can  well  imagine  his  astonishment," 
she  said,  drily. 

"He  knew  all  about  it,  even  if  he  did  not  get  it  from 
you,  mother,'*  said  the  girl,  darkly.  "Phin  Striker  told 
him  everything." 

"Everybody  in  town  will  know  about  it  before  the 
week  is  out,"  said  the  mother,  a  touch  of  bitterness  in 
her  voice.  "I  would  have  given  all  I  possess  if  it  could 
have  been  kept  from  Kenneth  Gwynne.  Salt  in  an  open 
sore,  that's  what  it  is,  Viola.  It  smarts,  oh,  how  it 
smarts." 

Viola,  ignorant  of  the  true  cause  of  her  mother's 
pain,  snapped  her  fingers  disdainfully. 

"That's  how  much  I  care  for  his  opinion,  one  way  or 
the  other.  I  wouldn't  let  him  worry  me  if  I  were  you, 
mother.  Let  him  think  what  he  pleases.  It's  nothing 
to  us.  I  guess  we  can  get  along  very  well  without  his 
good  opinion  or  his  good  will  or  anything  else.  And  I 
will  not  allow  him  to  interfere  in  my  affairs.  I  told 
him  so  in  plain  words  out  there  awhile  ago.  He  comes 
here  and  the  very  first  thing  he  does  is  to — " 

"He  will  think  what  he  pleases,  my  child,"  broke  in 
her  mother;  "so  do  not  flatter  yourself  that  he  will  be 
affected  by  your  opinion  of  him.  We  will  not  discuss 
him,  if  you  please.  We  have  come  to  an  understanding 
on  certain  matters,  and  that  is  all  that  is  necessary  to 


150  VIOLA    GWYN 

tell  you  about  our  interview.  He  will  go  his  own  way 
and  we  will  go  ours.  There  need  be  no  conflict  between 
us." 

Viola  frowned  dubiously.  "It  is  all  very  well  for  you 
to  take  that  attitude,  mother.  But  I  am  not  in  the 
same  position.  He  is  my  half-brother.  It  is  going  to 
be  very  awkward.  He  is  nothing  to  you, — and  people 
will  understand  if  you  ignore  him, — but  it — it  isn't 
quite  the  same  with  me.  Can't  you  see?" 

"Certainly,"  admitted  Mrs.  Gwyr  without  hesitation. 
"You  and  he  have  a  perfect  right  to  be  friendly.  It 
would  not  be  right  for  me  to  stand  between  you  if  you 
decide  to — " 

"But  I  do  not  want  to  be  friendly  with  him,"  cried 
the  girl,  adding,  with  a  toss  of  her  head, — "and  I  guess 
he  realizes  it  by  this  time.  But  people  know  that  we  had 
the  same  father.  They  will  think  it  strange  if — if  we 
have  nothing  to  do  with  each  other.  Oh,  it's  terribly 
upsetting,  isn't  it?" 

"What  did  he  say  to  you  out  there?" 

"He  was  abominable!  Officious,  sarcastic,  inso 
lent,—" 

"In  plain  words,  he  gave  you  a  good  talking  to,"  in 
terrupted  Mrs.  Gwyn,  rather  grimly. 

"He  said  some  things  I  can  never  forgive." 

"About  you  and  Barry  ?" 

"Well, — not  so  much  about  me  and  Barry  as  about 
the  way  I —  Oh,  you  needn't  smile,  mother.  He  isn't 
going  to  make  any  fuss  about  Barry.  He  told  me 
in  plain  words  that  he  did  not  care  whether  I  married 
him  or  not, — or  ran  away  with  him,  for  that  matter. 
You  will  not  get  much  support  from  him,  let  me  tell 
you.  And  now  I  have  something  I  want  to  say  to  you. 
We  may  as  well  have  it  out  now  as  any  other  time.  I 


MOTHER    AND    DAUGHTER      151 

am  going  to  marry  Barry  Lapelle."  There  was  a  ring 
of  defiance  in  her  voice. 

Rachel  Gwyn  looked  at  her  steadily  for  a  moment 
before  responding  to  this  out-and-out  challenge. 

"I  think  it  would  be  only  fair  of  you,"  she  began, 
levelly,  "to  tell  Mr.  Lapelle  just  what  he  may  expect 
in  case  he  marries  you.  Tell  him  for  me  that  you  will 
never  receive  a  penny  or  an  inch  of  land  when  I  die.  I 
shall  cut  you  off  completely.  Tell  him  that.  It  may 
make  some  difference  in  his  calculations." 

Viola  flared.  "You  have  no  right  to  insinuate  that 
he  wants  to  marry  me  for  your  money  or  your  lands. 
He  wants  me  for  myself, — he  wants  me  because  he  loves 
me." 

"I  grant  you  that,"  said  Mrs.  Gwyn,  nodding  her 
head  slowly.  "He  would  be  a  fool  not  to  want  you — 
now.  You  are  young  and  you  are  very  pretty.  But 
after  he  has  been  married  a  few  years  and  you  have 
become  an  old  song  to  him,  he  will  feel  differently  about 
money  and  lands.  I  know  Mr.  Lapelle  and  his  stripe. 
He  wants  you  now  for  yourself,  but  when  you  are  thirty 
years  old  h  will  want  you  for  something  entirely  dif 
ferent.  At  any  rate,  you  should  make  it  plain  to  him 
that  he  will  get  nothing  but  you, — absolutely  nothing 
but  you.  Men  of  his  kind  do  not  love  long.  They  love 
violently — but  not  long.  Idle,  improvident  men,  such 
as  he  is,  are  able  to  crowd  a  whole  lot  of  love  into  a 
very  short  space  of  time.  That  is  because  they  have 
nothing  much  else  to  do.  They  run  through  with  love 
as  they  run  through  with  money, — quickly.  The  man 
who  wastes  money  will  also  waste  love.  And  when  he 
has  wasted  all  his  love,  Barry  Lapelle  will  still  want 
money  to  waste.  Be  good  enough  to  make  him  under 
stand  that  he  will  never  have  a  dollar  of  my  money  to 


152  VIOLA    GWYN 

waste, — never,  my  child,  even  though  his  wife  were 
starving  to  death." 

Viola  stared  at  her  mother  incredulously,  her  face 
paling.  "You  mean — you  mean  you  would  let  me 
starve, — your  own  daughter?  I — why,  mother,  I  can't 
believe  you  would  be  so — " 

"I  mean  it,"  said  Rachel  Gwyn,  compressing  her  lips. 

"Then,"  cried  Viola,  hotly,  "you  are  the  most  un 
natural,  cruel  mother  that  ever — " 

"Stop !  You  will  not  find  me  a  cruel  and  inhuman 
mother  when  you  come  creeping  back  to  my  door  after 
Barry  Lapelle  has  cast  you  off.  I  am  only  asking  you 
to  tell  him  what  he  may  expect  from  me.  And  I  am 
trying  hard  to  convince  you  of  what  you  may  expect 
from  him.  There's  the  end  of  it.  I  have  nothing  more 
to  say." 

"But  I  have  something  more  to  say,"  cried  the  girl. 
"I  shall  tell  him  all  you  have  said,  and  I  shall  marry 
him  in  spite  of  everything.  I  am  not  afraid  of  starving. 
I  don't  want  a  penny  of  father's  money.  He  did  not 
choose  to  give  it  to  me ;  he  gave  half  of  all  he  possessed 
to  his  son  by  another  woman,  he  ignored  me,  he  cut  me 
off  as  if  I  were  a — " 

"Be  careful,  my  child,"  warned  Rachel  Gwyn,  her 
eyes  narrowing.  "I  cannot  permit  you  to  question  his 
acts  or  his  motives.  He  did  what  he  thought  was  best, 
— and  we — I  mean  you  and  I — must  abide  by  his  de 
cision." 

"I  am  not  questioning  your  husband's  act,"  said 
Viola,  stubbornly.  "I  am  questioning  my  father's  act." 

Mrs.  Gwyn  started.  For  a  second  or  two  her  eyes 
wavered  and  then  fell.  One  corner  of  her  mouth 
worked  curiously.  Then,  without  a  word,  she  turned 
away  from  the  girl  and  left  the  room. 


MOTHER    AND    DAUGHTER      153 

Viola,  greatly  offended,  heard  her  ascend  the  stairs 
and  close  a  door;  then  her  slow,  heavy  tread  on  the 
boards  above.  Suddenly  the  girl's  anger  melted.  The 
tears  rushed  to  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  what  a  beast  I  was  to  hurt  her  like  that,"  she 
murmured,  forgetting  the  harsh,  unfeeling  words  that 
had  aroused  her  ire,  thinking  only  of  the  wonder  and 
pain  that  had  lurked  in  her  mother's  eyes, — the  wonder 
and  pain  of  a  whipped  dog.  "The  only  person  in  all 
the  world  who  has  ever  really  loved  me, — poor,  poor  old 
mother."  She  stared  through  her  tears  at  the  flames,  a 
little  pucker  of  uncertainty  clouding  her  brow.  "I  am 
sure  Barry  never,  never  can  love  me  as  she  does,  or  be 
as  kind  and  good  to  me,"  she  mused.  "I  wonder — I 
wonder  if  what  she  says  is  true  about  men.  I  wish 
he  had  not  gone  to  drinking  to-day.  But  I  suppose 
the  poor  boy  really  couldn't  help  it.  He  hates  so  to  be 
disappointed." 

Later  on,  at  supper,  she  abruptly  asked: 

"Mother,  how  old  is  Kenneth?" 

They  had  spoken  not  more  than  a  dozen  words  to 
each  other  since  sitting  down  to  table,  which  was  set, 
as  usual,  in  the  kitchen.  Both  were  thoughtful; — one 
of  them  was  contrite. 

Rachel  Gwyn,  started  out  of  a  profound  reverie, 
gave  her  daughter  a  sharp,  inquiring  look  before  an 
swering. 

"I  do  not  know.    Twenty-five  or  six,  I  suppose." 

"Did  you  know  his  mother?" 

"Yes,"  after  a  perceptible  pause. 

"How  long  after  she  died  were  you  and  father  mar 
ried?" 

"Your  father  had  been  a  widower  nearly  two  years 
when  we  were  married,"  said  Rachel,  steadily. 


154  VIOLA    GWYN 

"Why  doesn't  Kenneth  spell  his  name  as  we  do?" 

"Gwyn  is  the  way  it  was  spelled  a  great  many  years 
ago,  and  it  is  the  correct  way,  according  to  your  father. 
It  was  his  father,  I  believe,  who  added  the  last  two  let 
ters, — I  do  not  know  why,  unless  it  was  supposed  to  be 
more  elegant." 

"It  seems  strange  that  he  should  spell  it  one  way  and 
his  own  son  another,"  ventured  the  girl,  unsatisfied. 

"Kenneth  was  brought  up  to  spell  it  in  the  new 
fangled  way,  I  guess,"  was  Rachel  Gwyn's  reply.  "You 
need  not  ask  me  questions  about  the  family,  Viola. 
Your  father  never  spoke  of  them.  I  am  afraid  he  was 
not  on  good  terms  with  them.  He  was  a  strange  man. 
He  kept  things  to  himself.  I  do  not  recollect  ever 
hearing  him  mention  his  first  wife  or  his  son  or  any 
other  member  of  his  family  in, — well,  in  twenty  years 
or  more." 

"I  should  think  you  would  have  been  a  little  bit 
curious.  I  know  I  should." 

"I  knew  all  that  was  necessary  for  me  to  know," 
said  Rachel,  somewhat  brusquely. 

"Can't  you  tell  me  something  more  about  father's 
people?"  persisted  the  girl. 

"I  only  know  that  they  lived  in  Baltimore.  They 
never  came  west.  Your  father  was  about  twenty  years 
old  when  he  left  home  and  came  to  Kentucky.  That 
is  all  I  know,  so  do  not  ask  any  more  questions." 

"He  never  acted  like  a  backwoodsman,"  said  Viola. 
"He  did  not  talk  like  one  or — " 

"He  was  an  educated  man.  He  came  of  a  good 
family." 

"And  you  are  different  from  the  women  we  used  to 
see  down  the  river.  Goodness,  I  was  proud  of  you  and 
father.  There  isn't  a  woman  in  this  town  who — " 


MOTHER   AND   DAUGHTER      155 

"I  was  born  in  Salem,  Massachusetts,  and  lived  there 
till  I  was  nearly  twenty,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Gwyn, 
calmly.  "I  taught  school  for  two  years  after  my  father 
died.  My  mother  did  not  long  survive  him.  After  her 
death  I  came  west  with  my  brother  and  his  wife  and  a 
dozen  other  men  and  women.  We  lived  in  a  settlement 
on  the  Ohio  River  for  several  years.  My  brother  was 
killed  by  the  Indians.  His  widow  took  their  two  small 
children  and  went  back  to  Salem  to  live.  I  have  never 
heard  from  her.  We  did  not  like  each  other.  I  was 
glad  to  have  her  go." 

"Where  did  you  first  meet  father?" 

She  regretted  the  question  the  instant  the  words 
were  out  of  her  mouth.  The  look  of  pain, — almost  of 
pleading, — in  her  mother's  eyes  caused  her  to  reproach 
herself. 

"Forgive  me,  mother,"  she  cried.  "I  did  not  stop 
to  think.  I  know  how  it  hurts  you  to  talk  about  him> 
and  I  should  have — " 

"Be  good  enough  to  remember  in  the  future,"  said 
Rachel  Gwyn,  sternly,  her  eyes  now  cold  and  forbid 
ding.  She  arose  and  stalked  to  the  kitchen  window, 
where  she  stood  for  a  long  time  looking  out  into  the 
gathering  darkness. 

"Clear  the  table,  Hattie,"  said  Viola,  presently* 
"We  are  through." 

Then  she  walked  over  to  her  mother  and  timidly  laid 
an  arm  across  her  shoulder. 

"I  am  sorry,  mother,"  she  said. 

To  this  Mrs.  Gwyn  did  not  reply.  She  merely  ob 
served:  "We  have  had  very  little  sleep  in  the  last  six 
and  thirty  hours.  Come  to  bed,  child." 

As  was  her  custom,  Rachel  Gwyn  herself  saw  to  the 
locking  and  bolting  of  the  doors  and  window  shutters 


156  VIOLA    GWYN 

at  the  front  of  the  house.  To-night  Viola,  instead  of 
Hattie,  followed  the  tall  black  figure  from  door  to  win 
dow,  carrying  the  lighted  candle.  They  stood  together, 
side  by  side,  in  the  open  front  door  for  a  few  moments, 
peering  at  the  fence  of  trees  across  the  road. 

Off  in  the  distance  some  one  was  whistling  a  doleful 
tune.  The  spring  wind  blowing  in  their  faces  was  fresh 
and  moist,  a  soft  wind  laden  with  the  smell  of  earth. 
A  clumsy  hound  came  slouching  around  the  corner  of 
the  little  porch  and,  wagging  his  tail,  stopped  below 
them ;  the  light  shone  down  into  his  big,  glistening  eyes. 
Viola  spoke  to  him  softly.  He  wagged  his  tail  more 
briskly. 

Rachel  had  turned  her  head  and  was  looking  toward 
the  house  that  was  to  be  Kenneth's  home.  Its  outlines 
could  be  made  out  among  the  trees  to  the  right,  squat 
and  lonely  in  a  setting  less  black  than  itself. 

"Before  long  there  will  be  lights  in  the  windows 
again,"  she  was  saying,  more  to  herself  than  to  Viola. 
"A  haunted  house.  Haunted  by  a  living,  mortal  ghost. 
Eh?"  she  cried  out,  sharply,  turning  to  Viola. 

"I  did  not  speak,  mother." 

A  look  of  awe  came  to  Rachel's  eyes. 

"I  was  sure  I  heard — "  she  began,  and  then,  after 
a  short  pause,  laughed  throatily.  "I  guess  it  was  the 
wind.  Come  in.  I  want  to  lock  the  door." 

Viola  was  a  long  time  in  going  to  sleep.  It  seemed 
to  her  as  she  lay  there,  staring  wide  awake,  that  every 
thing  in  the  world  was  unsettled  and  topsy-turvy. 
Nothing  could  ever  be  right  again.  What  with  the 
fiasco  of  the  night  just  gone,  the  appearance  of  the 
mysterious  brother,  the  counterbalancing  of  resolve 
and  remorse  within  ner  troubled  self,  the  report  of 


MOTHER    AND    DAUGHTER     157 

Barry's  lapse  from  rectitude,  her  mother's  astounding 
sophistry,  her  tired  brain  was  in  such  a  whirl  as  never 
was. 

There  was  a  new  pain  in  her  breast  that  was  not  of 
thwarted  desires  nor  of  rancour  toward  this  smug,  in 
solent  brother  who  had  come  upon  the  scene.  It  hurt 
her  to  think  that  up  to  this  night  she  had  known  so 
little,  ay,  almost  nothing,  about  her  own  mother's  life. 
For  the  first  time,  she  heard  of  Salem,  of  her  mother's 
people  and  her  occupation,  of  the  journey  westward, 
of  the  uncle  who  was  killed  by  the  Indians  and  the  wife 
who  turned  back ;  of  unknown  cousins  to  whom  she  was 
also  unknown.  There  was  pain  in  the  discovery  that 
her  mother  was  almost  a  stranger  to  her. 


CHAPTER  XI 

A    ROADSIDE    MEETING 

KENNETH  remained  at  the  tavern  for  a  month. 
He  did  not  go  near  the  'house  of  his  step 
mother.  He  saw  her  once  walking  along  the 
main  street,  and  followed  her  with  his  eyes  until  she 
disappeared  into  a  store.  A  friendly  citizen  took  occa 
sion  to  inform  him  that  it  was  the  "fust  time"  he  had 
seen  her  on  the  street  in  a  coon's  age. 

"She  ain't  like  most  women,"  he  vouchsafed.  "Never 
comes  down  town  unless  she's  got  some  reason  to. 
Most  of  'em  never  stay  to  home  unless  they've  got  a 
derned  good  reason  to,  setch  as  sickness,  or  the  washin* 
and  ironin*,  or  it's  rainin'  pitchforks.  She's  a  mighty 
queer  woman,  Rachel  Gwyn  is.  How  air  you  an'  her 
makin'  out  these  days,  Kenneth?" 

"Oh,  fair  to  middlin',"  replied  the  young  man,  drop 
ping  into  the  vernacular. 

"I  didn't  know  but  what  ye'd  patched  things  up 
sorter,"  said  the  citizen,  invitingly.  . 

"There  is  nothing  to  patch  up,"  said  Kenneth. 

"Well,  I  guess  it  ain't  any  of  my  business,  anyhow," 
remarked  the  other,  cheerfully. 

The  business  of  taking  over  the  property,  signing 
the  necessary  papers,  renewing  an  agreement  with  the 
man  who  farmed  his  land  on  the  Wea,  taking  account 
of  all  live-stock  and  other  chattels,  occupied  his  time 

for  the  better  part  of  a  fortnight.    He  spent  two  days 

158 


A    ROADSIDE    MEETING         159 

and  a  night  at  the  little  farmhouse,  listening  with  ever 
increasing  satisfaction  to  the  enthusiastic  prophecies 
of  the  farmer,  a  stout  individual  named  Jones  whose 
faith  in  the  new  land  was  surpassed  only  by  his  ability 
to  till  it.  Even  out  here  on  his  own  farm  Kenneth  was 
unable  to  escape  the  unwelcome  influence  of  Rachel 
Carter.  Mr.  Jones  magnanimously  admitted  that  she 
was  responsible  for  all  of  the  latest  conveniences  about 
the  place  and  characterized  her  as  a  "woman  with  a 
head  on  her  shoulders,  you  bet." 

He  confessed :  "Why,  dodgast  it,  she  stopped  by  here 
a  couple  o'  weeks  ago  an'  jest  naturally  raised  hell  with 
me  because  my  wife's  goin'  to  have  another  baby.  She 
sez,  sorter  sharp-like,  'The  only  way  to  make  a  farm 
pay  is  to  stock  it  with  somethin'  besides  children.' 
That  made  me  a  leetle  mad,  so  I  up  an'  sez  back  to  her : 
'I  wouldn't  swap  my  seven  children  fer  all  the  hogs  an' 
cattle  in  the  state  o'  Indianny.'  So  she  sez,  kind  o' 
grinnin',  'Well,  I'll  bet  your  wife  would  jump  at  the 
chance  to  trade  your  next  seven  children,  sight  onseen, 
fer  a  new  pair  o'  shoes  er  that  bonnet  she's  been  wantin* 
ever  sence  she  got  married.'  That  sorter  mixed  me  up. 
I  couldn't  make  out  jest  what  she  was  drivin'  at.  Must 
ha'  been  nine  o'clock  that  night  when  it  come  to  me  all 
of  a  sudden.  So  I  woke  Sue  up  an'  told  her  what 
Rachel  Gwyn  said  to  me,  an',  by  gosh,  Sue  saw  through 
it  quicker'n  a  flash.  'You  bet  I  would,'  sez  she.  'I'd 
swap  the  next  hundred.'  Then  she  kinder  groaned  an' 
said,  'I  guess  maybe  I'd  better  make  it  the  next  ninety- 
nine.'  Well,  sir,  that  sot  me  to  thinkin',  an'  the  more  I 
thought,  the  more  I  realized  what  a  lot  o'  common  sense 
that  mother-in-law  o'  your'n  has  got.  She — " 

"You  mean  my  step-mother,  Jones." 

"They  say  it  amounts  to  the  same  thing  in  most 


160  VIOLA    GWYN 

families,"  said  the  ready  Mr.  Jones,  and  continued  to 
expatiate  upon  the  remarkable  qualities  of  Rachel 
Gwyn. 

Kenneth  found  it  difficult  to  think  of  the  woman  as 
Rachel  Gwyn.  To  him,  she  was  unalterably  Ruchel 
Carter.  Time  and  again  he  caught  himself  up  barely  in 
time  to  avoid  using  the  unknown  name  in  the  presence 
of  others.  The  possibility  that  he  might  some  day 
inadvertently  blurt  it  out  in  conversation  with  Viola 
caused  him  a  great  deal  of  uneasiness  and  concern.  He 
realized  that  he  would  have  to  be  on  his  guard  all  of 
the  time. 

There  seemed  to  be  no  immediate  prospect  of  such  a 
calamity,  however.  Since  the  memorable  encounter  in 
the  thicket  he  had  not  had  an  opportunity  to  speak  to 
the  girl.  For  reasons  of  her  own  she  purposely 
avoided  him,  there  could  be  no  doubt  about  that.  On 
more  than  one  occasion  she  deliberately  had  crossed 
a  street  to  escape  meeting  him  face  to  face,  and  there 
was  the  one  especially  irritating  instance  when,  finding 
herself  hard  put,  she  had  been  obliged  to  turn  squarely 
in  her  tracks  and  hurry  back  in  the  direction  from 
which  she  came.  This  would  have  been  laughable  to 
Kenneth  but  for  the  distressing  fact  that  it  was  even 
more  laughable  to  others.  Several  men  and  women,  wit 
nessing  the  manoeuvre,  had  sniggered  gleefully, — one  of 
the  men  going  so  far  as  to  slap  his  leg  and  roar: 
"Well,  by  gosh,  did  you  ever  see  anything  like  that?" 
His  ejaculation,  like  that  of  a  town-crier,  being  audible 
for  a  hundred  feet  or  more,  had  one  gratifying  result. 
It  caused  Viola  to  turn  and  transfix  the  offender  with 
a  stare  so  haughty  that  he  abruptly  diverted  his  atten 
tion  to  the  upper  north-east  corner  of  the  court-house, 
where,  fortunately  for  him,  a  pair  of  pigeons  had  just 


A    ROADSIDE    MEETING         161 

alighted  and  were  engaged  in  the  interesting  pastime  of 
bowing  to  each  other. 

A  week  or  so  after  his  return  from  the  farm  Kenneth 
saw  her  riding  off  on  horseback  with  two  other  young 
women  and  a  youth  named  Hayes.  She  passed  within 
ten  feet  of  him  but  did  not  deign  to  notice  him,  al 
though  her  companions  bowed  somewhat  eagerly.  This 
was  an  occasion  when  he  felt  justified  in  swearing  softly 
under  his  breath — and  also  to  make  a  resolve — to  write 
her  a  very  polite  and  formal  letter  in  which  he  would 
ask  her  pardon  for  presuming  to  suggest,  as  a  brother, 
that  she  was  making  a  perfect  fool  of  herself,  and  that 
people  were  laughing  "fit  to  kill"  over  her  actions.  It 
goes  without  saying  that  he  thought  better  of  it  and 
never  wrote  the  letter. 

She  was  a  graceful  and  accomplished  horsewoman. 
He  watched  her  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  as  she 
cantered  down  the  street,  sitting  the  spirited  sorrel 
mare  with  all  the  ease  and  confidence  of  a  practised 
rider.  Her  habit  was  of  very  dark  blue,  with  huge 
puffed  sleeves  and  a  high  lace  collar.  She  wore  a  top- 
hat  of  black,  a  long  blue  veil  trailing  down  her  back. 
He  heartily  agreed  with  the  laconic  bystander  who  re 
marked  that  she  was  "purtier  than  most  pictures." 

Later  on,  urged  by  a  spirit  of  restlessness,  he  ordered 
Zachariah  to  saddle  his  horse  and  bring  him  around  to 
the  front  of  the  tavern,  where  he  mounted  and  set  out 
for  a  ride  up  the  Wild  Cat  road.  Two  or  three  miles 
above  town  he  met  Hayes  and  the  two  young  women  re 
turning.  The  look  of  consternation  that  passed  among 
them  did  not  escape  him.  He  smiled  a  trifle  maliciously 
as  he  rode  on,  for  now  he  knew  what  had  become  of  the 
missing  member  of  the  party. 

Half  a  mile  farther  on  he  came  upon  Viola  and  Barry 


162  VIOLA    GWYN 

Lapelle,  riding  slowly  side  by  side  through  the  narrow 
lane.  He  drew  off  to  one  side  to  allow  them  to  pass, 
doffing  his  beaver  ceremoniously. 

Lapelle's  friendly  greeting  did  not  surprise  him,  for 
the  two  had  seen  a  great  deal  of  each  other,  and  at  no 
time  had  there  been  anything  in  the  lover's  manner  to 
indicate  that  Viola  had  confided  to  him  the  story  of  the 
meeting  in  the  thicket.  But  he  was  profoundly  aston 
ished  when  the  girl  favoured  him  with  a  warm,  gay  smile 
and  cried  out  a  cheery  "How  do  you  do,  Kenneth!'* 

More  than  that,  she  drew  rein  and  added  to  his 
amazement  by  shaking  her  finger  reproachfully  at  him, 
saying : 

"Where  on  earth  have  you  been  keeping  yourself? 
I  have  not  laid  eyes  on  you  for  more  than  a  week." 

Utterly  confounded  by  this  unexpected  attack,  Ken 
neth  stammered :  "Why,  I — er — I  have  been  very  busy." 
Not  laid  eyes  on  him,  indeed!  What  was  her  game? 
"Now  that  I  come  to  think  of  it,"  he  went  on,  recover 
ing  himself,  "it  is  fully  a  week  since  I've  seen  you. 
Don't  you  ever  come  down  town,  Viola?" 

"Every  day,"  she  said,  coolly.  "We  just  happen 
never  to  see  each  other,  that's  all.  I  am  glad  to  have 
had  this  little  glimpse  of  you,  Kenneth,  even  though  it 
is  away  out  here  in  the  woods." 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  underlying  significance 
of  these  words.  They  contained  the  thinly  veiled  im 
plication  that  he  had  followed  for  the  purpose  of  spy 
ing  upon  her. 

"Better  turn  around  and  ride  back  with  us,  Kenny," 
said  Barry,  politely  but  not  graciously. 

"I  am  on  my  way  up  to  the  Wild  Cat  to  see  a  man  on 
business,"  said  Kenneth,  lamely. 

"Kenny?"    repeated    Viola,    puckering    her    brow. 


A    ROADSIDE    MEETING         163 

"Where  have  I  heard  that  name  before?  I  seem  to  re 
member — oh,  as  if  it  were  a  thousand  years  ago.  Do 
they  call  you  Kenny  for  short?" 

"It  grew  up  with  me,"  he  replied.  "Ever  since  I  can 
remember,  my  folks — " 

He  broke  off  in  the  middle  of  the  sentence,  con 
fronted  by  a  disconcerting  thought.  Could  it  be  possi 
ble  that  somewhere  in  Viola's  brain, — or  rather  in 
Minda's  baby  brain, — that  familiar  name  had  stamped 
itself?  Why  not?  If  it  had  been  impressed  upon  his 
own  baby  brain,  why  not  in  a  less  degree  upon  hers? 
He  made  a  pretence  of  stooping  far  over  to  adjust  a 
corner  of  his  saddle  blanket.  Straightening  up,  he 
went  on: 

"Any  name  is  better  than  what  the  boys  used  to  call 
me  at  school.  I  was  known  by  the  elegant  name  of 
Piggy,  due  to  an  appetite  over  which  I  seemed  to  have 
no  control.  Well,  I  must  be  getting  along.  Good  day 
to  you." 

He  lifted  his  hat  and  rode  off.  He  had  gone  not 
more  than  twenty  rods  when  he  heard  a  masculine  shout 
from  behind:  turning,  he  discovered  that  the  couple 
were  still  standing  where  he  had  left  them.  Lapelle 
called  out: 

"Your  sister  wants  to  have  a  word  with  you." 

She  rode  swiftly  up  to  where  he  was  waiting. 

"I  just  want  to  let  you  know  that  I  intend  to  tell 
mother  about  meeting  Barry  out  here  to-day,"  she 
said,  unsmilingly.  "I  shall  not  tell  her  that  we  planned 
it  in  advance,  however.  We  did  plan  it,  so  if  you  want 
to  run  and  tell  her  yourself,  you  may  do  so.  It  will 
make  no — " 

"Is  that  all  you  wanted  to  say  to  me,  Viola?"  he 
interrupted. 


164*  VIOLA    GWYN 

For  a  moment  she  faced  him  rebelliously,  hot  words 
on  her  lips.  Then  a  surprising  change  came  over  her. 
Her  eyes  quailed  under  the  justifiable  scorn  in  his. 
She  hung  her  head. 

"No,"  she  said,  miserably.  "I  thought  it  was  all, 
but  it  isn't.  I  want  to  say  that  I  am  sorry  I  said 
what  I  did." 

He  watched  the  scarlet  flood  sweep  over  her  cheeks 
and  then  as  swiftly  fade.  It  was  abject  surrender,  and 
yet  he  had  no  thrill  of  triumph. 

"It's — it's  all  right,  Viola,"  he  stammered,  awk 
wardly.  "Don't  think  anything  more  about  it.  We 
will  consider  it  unsaid." 

"No,  we'll  not,"  she  said,  looking  up.  "We  will 
just  let  it  stand  as  another  black  mark  against  me. 
I  am  getting  a  lot  of  them  lately.  But  I  am  sorry, 
Kenneth.  Will  you  try  to  forget  it?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "Never !  Forgetting  the  bitter 
would  mean  that  I  would  also  have  to  give  up  the 
sweet,"  said  he,  gallantly.  "And  you  have  given  me 
something  very  sweet  to  remember." 

She  received  this  with  a  wondering,  hesitating  little 
smile. 

"I  never  dreamed  that  brothers  could  say  such  nice 
things  to  their  sisters,"  she  said,  and  he  was  aware  of 
a  deep,  questioning  look  in  her  eyes.  "They  usually 
say  them  to  other  men's  sisters." 

"Ah,  but  no  other  fellow  happens  to  have  you  as  a 
sister,"  he  returned,  fatuously.  She  laughed  aloud  at 
this,  perhaps  a  little  uncertainly. 

"Bless  me!"  he  exclaimed.  "It  sounds  good  to  hear 
you  laugh  like  that, — such  a  jolly,  friendly  sort  of 
laugh." 

"I  must  be  going  now,"  she  said,   biting  her  lip. 


A    ROADSIDE    MEETING         165 

"Good-bye, — Kenny."  A  faint  frown  clouded  her  brow 
after  she  had  uttered  the  name.  "I  must  ask  mother 
if  she  remembers  hearing  father  speak  of  you  as 
Kenny." 

"Say,  Viola,"  came  an  impatient  shout  from  Barry 
Lapelle,  "are  you  going  to  take  all  day?" 

It  was  plain  to  be  seen  that  the  young  man  was 
out  of  temper.  There  was  a  sharp,  domineering  note 
of  command  in  his  voice.  Viola  straightened  up  in  her 
saddle  and  sent  a  surprised,  resentful  look  at  the 
speaker.  Kenneth  could  not  repress  a  chuckle. 

"Better  hurry  along,"  he  said,  grimly,  "or  he'll  take 
your  head  off.  Lord,  we  are  going  to  have  a  storm. 
I  see  a  thundercloud  gathering  just  below  the  rim  of 
Barry's  hat.  If  you — " 

"Please  keep  your  precious  wit  to  yourself,"  she 
flamed,  but  with  all  her  show  of  righteous  indignation 
she  could  not  hide  from  him  the  chagrin  and  mortifica 
tion  that  lurked  in  her  tell-tale  eyes. 

She  rode  off  in  high  dudgeon,  and  he  was  left  to 
curse  his  ill-timed  jest.  What  a  blundering  fool  he 
had  been !  Her  first,  timid  little  advance, — and  he  had 
met  it  with  boorish,  clownish  wit!  A  scurvy  jest,  in 
deed!  She  was  justified  in  despising  him. 

If  Viola  had  turned  her  proud  head  a  few  moments 
later,  she  would  have  beheld  an  amazing  spectacle :  her 
supposedly  smug  and  impeccable  brother  riding  away 
at  break-neck  speed  down  the  soggy  lane,  regardless  of 
overhanging  branches  and  flying  mud,  fleeing  in  wrath 
from  the  scene  of  his  discontent. 

Dusk  was  falling  when  he  rode  slowly  into  the  town 
again.  He  had  reached  a  decision  during  that  lonely 
ride.  He  would  not  remain  in  Lafayette.  He  foresaw 
misery  and  unhappiness  for  himself  if  he  stayed  there, 


166  VIOLA    GWYN 

— for,  be  it  here  declared,  he  was  in  love  with  Viola 
Gwyn.  No,  worse  than  that,  he  was  in  love  with  Minda 
Carter, — and  therein  lay  all  the  bitterness  that  filled  his 
soul.  He  could  never  have  her.  Even  though  she  cast 
off  the  ardent  Lapelle,  still  he  could  not  have  her  for 
his  own.  The  bars  were  up,  and  it  was  now  beyond  his 
power  to  lower  them.  And  so,  with  this  resolve  firmly 
fixed  in  his  mind,  he  gave  himself  up  to  a  strange  sort 
of  despair. 

After  supper  at  the  tavern,  he  set  out  for  a  solitary 
stroll  about  the  town  before  going  to  bed.  He  took 
stock  of  himself.  No  later  than  that  morning  he  had 
come  to  a  decision  to  open  an  office  and  engage  in  the 
practice  of  Law  in  Lafayette.  He  had  made  many 
friends  during  his  brief  stay  in  the  place,  and  from 
all  sides  he  had  been  encouraged  to  "hang  out  his 
shingle"  and  "grow  up  with  the  town."  He  liked  the 
people,  he  had  faith  in  the  town,  he  possessed  all  the 
confidence  and  courage  of  youth.  The  local  members 
of  the  bar,  including  the  judge  and  justices,  seriously 
urged  him  to  establish  himself  there — there  was  room 
for  him, — the  town  needed  such  men  as  he, — indeed,  one 
of  the  leading  lawyers  had  offered  to  take  him  into 
partnership,  an  opportunity  not  to  be  despised,  in  view 
of  this  man's  state-wide  reputation  as  a  lawyer  and 
orator,  and  who  was  already  being  spoken  of  for  high 
honours  in  the  councils  of  state  and  nation. 

All  this  was  very  gratifying  to  the  young  stranger. 
He  was  flattered  by  the  unmistakable  sincerity  of  these 
new  friends.  And  he  was  in  a  position  to  weather  the 
customary  paucity  of  clients  for  an  indefinite  period, 
a  condition  resulting  to  but  few  young  men  starting 
out  for  themselves  in  the  practice  of  law.  He  was  com 
fortably  well-off  in  the  matter  of  worldly  goods,  not 


A   ROADSIDE    MEETING         167 

only  through  his  recently  acquired  possessions,  but  as 
the  result  of  a  substantial  legacy  that  had  come  to 
him  on  the  death  of  his  grandmother.  He  had  received 
his  mother's  full  share  of  the  Blythe  estate,  a  no  incon 
siderable  fortune  in  lands  and  money. 

And  now  everything  was  changed.  He  would  have 
to  give  up  his  plan  to  settle  in  Lafayette,  and  so,  as 
lie  strolled  gloomily  about  the  illy-lighted  town,  he  was 
casting  about  for  the  next  best  place  to  locate.  The 
incomprehensible  and  incredible  had  come  to  pass.  He 
had  fallen  in  love  with  Viola  Gwyn  at  first  sight,  that 
stormy  night  at  Striker's.  The  discovery  that  she  was 
his  own  half-sister  had,  of  course,  deluded  his  senses — 
temporarily,  but  now  he  realized  that  the  strange, 
primitive  instincts  of  man  had  not  been  deceived  and 
would  not  be  denied. 

His  blood  had  known  the  truth  from  the  instant  he 
first  laid  eyes  upon  the  lovely  stranger.  Since  that 
first  night  there  had  been  revelations.  First  of  all, 
Viola  was  the  flesh  and  blood  of  an  evil  woman,  and 
that  woman  his  mortal  foe.  Notwithstanding  her 
own  innocence  and  purity,  it  was  inconceivable  that  he 
should  ever  think  of  taking  her  to  himself  as  wife. 
Secondly,  he  was  charged  with  a  double  secret  that 
must  forever  stand  between  him  and  her:  the  truth 
about  her  mother  and  the  truth  about  herself. 

There  was  but  one  thing  left  for  him  to  do, — go 
away.  He  loved  her.  He  would  grow  to  love  her  a 
thousand-fold  more  if  he  remained  near  her,  if  he  saw 
her  day  by  day.  These  past  few  days  had  brought 
despair  and  jealousy  to  him,  but  what  would  the  future 
bring?  Misery!  No,  he  would  have  to  go.  He  would 
wind  up  his  affairs  at  once  and  put  longing  and  tempta- 


168  VIOLA    GWYN 

tion  as  far  behind  him  as  possible.  There  was  the 
town  of  Louisville.  From  all  reports  it  was  a  pros 
perous,  growing  town,  advantageously  situated  on  the 
River  Ohio.  Crawfordsville  was  too  near.  He  would 
have  to  go  farther,  much  farther  away  than  that, — 
perhaps  back  to  the  old  home  town. 

"What  cruel  foul  luck !"  he  groaned,  aloud. 

His  wanderings  had  carried  him  through  dark,  wind- 
'ing  cow-paths  and  lanes  to  within  a  stone's  throw  of 
Jack  Trentman's  shanty,  standing  alone  like  the  pariah 
it  was,  on  the  steep  bank  of  the  river  near  the  ferry. 
Back  in  a  clump  of  sugar  trees  it  seemed  to  hide,  as  if 
shrinking  from  the  accusing  eye  of  every  good  and 
honest  man.  Kenneth  had  stopped  at  the  edge  of  the 
little  grove  and  was  gazing  fiercely  at  the  two  lighted 
windows  of  the  "shanty."  He  was  thinking  of  Barry 
Lapelle  as  he  muttered  the  words,  thinking  of  the  foul 
luck  that  seemed  almost  certain  to  deliver  Viola  into 
his  soiled  and  lawless  hands.  The  fierceness  of  his  gaze 
was  due  to  the  knowledge  that  Lapelle  was  now  inside 
Trentman's  notorious  shanty  and  perhaps  gambling. 

This  evening,  as  on  two  or  three  earlier  occasions,  he 
had  been  urged  by  Barry  to  come  down  to  the  shanty 
and  try  his  luck  at  poker.  He  had  steadfastly  de 
clined  these  invitations.  Trentman's  place  was  known 
far  and  wide  as  a  haven  into  which  "cleaned  out"  river 
gamblers  sailed  in  the  hope  of  recovering  at  least 
enough  of  their  fortunes  to  enable  them  to  return  to 
more  productive  fields  down  the  reaches  of  the  big 
river.  These  whilom,  undaunted  rascals,  like  birds  of 
passage,  stayed  but  a  short  time  in  the  new  town  of 
Lafayette.  They  came  up  the  river  with  sadly  de 
pleted  purses,  confident  of  "easy  pickings"  among  the 
vainglorious  amateurs,  and  be  it  said  in  behalf  of  their 


A    ROADSIDE    MEETING         169 

astuteness,  they  seldom  if  ever  boarded  the  south 
bound  boats  as  poor  as  when  they  came. 

In  due  time  they  invariably  returned  again  to  what 
they  called  among  themselves  "the  happy  hunting- 
ground."  The  stories  of  big  "winnings"  and  big  "los 
ings"  were  rife  among  the  people  of  the  town.  More 
than  one  adventurous  citizen  or  farmer  had  been 
"wiped  out,"  with  no  possible  chance  of  ever  recovering 
from  his  losses.  It  was  common  talk  that  Barry  La- 
pelle  was  "fresh  fish"  for  these  birds  of  prey.  He  pos 
sessed  the  gambling  instinct  but  lacked  the  gambler's 
wiles.  He  was  reckless  where  they  were  cool.  They 
"stripped"  him  far  oftener  than  he  won  from  them, 
but  it  was  these  infrequent  winnings  that  encouraged 
him.  He  believed  that  some  day  he  would  make  a  big 
"killing";  the  thought  of  that  was  ever  before  him, 
beckoning  him  on  like  the  dancing  will-o'-the-wisp.  He 
took  no  note  of  the  fact  that  these  bland  gentlemen 
could  pocket  their  losings  as  well  as  their  winnings. 
It  was  part  of  their  trade  to  suffer  loss.  They  had 
everything  to  gain  and  nothing  to  lose,  so  they  throve 
on  uncertainty. 

Not  so  with  Barry,  or  others  of  his  kind.  They  could 
only  afford  to  win.  It  was  no  uncommon  experience  for 
the  skilled  river  gambler  to  be  penniless;  it  was  all  in 
the  day's  work.  It  did  not  hurt  him  to  lose,  for  the 
morrow  was  ahead.  But  it  was  different  with  his  vic 
tims.  The  morrow  was  not  and  never  could  be  the 
same;  when  they  were  "cleaned  out"  it  meant  desola 
tion.  They  went  down  under  the  weight  and  never 
came  up,  while  the  real  gambler,  in  similar  case,  scraped 
his  sparse  resources  together  and  blithely  began  all  over 
again, — a  smiling  loser  and  a  smiling  winner.  Full 
purse  or  empty,  he  was  always  the  same.  Rich  to-day, 


170  VIOLA    GWYN 

poor  to-morrow, — all  the  same  to  him.  Philosopher, 
rascal,  soldier,  knave, — but  never  the  craven, — and  you 
have  the  Mississippi  gambler. 

Barry,  after  coming  in  from  his  ride  with  Viola,  had 
"tipped  the  jug"  rather  liberally.  He  kept  a  demi 
john  of  whiskey  in  his  room  at  the  tavern,  and  to  its 
contents  all  the  "afflicted"  were  welcome.  It  could  not 
he  said  of  him  that  he  was  the  principal  consumer,  for, 
except  under  unusual  circumstances,  he  was  a  fairly 
abstemious  man.  As  he  himself  declared,  he  drank 
sparingly  except  when  his  "soul  was  tried."  The  fact 
that  he  had  taken  several  copious  draughts  of  the  fiery 
Mononga-Durkee  immediately  upon  his  return  was  an 
indication  that  his  soul  was  tried,  and  what  so  reason 
able  as  to  assume  that  it  had  been  tried  by  Viola. 

In  a  different  frame  of  mine,  Kenneth  might  have 
accepted  this.as  a  most  gratifying  augury.  But,  being 
without  hope  himself,  he  took  no  comfort  in  Barry's 
gloom.  What  would  he  not  give  to  be  in  the  roisterer's 
boots  instead  of  his  own? 

The  spoken  lament  had  barely  passed  his  lips  when 
the  wheel  of  fate  took  a  new  and  unexpected  turn, 
bringing  his  dolorous  meditations  to  a  sudden  halt  and 
subsequently  upsetting  all  his  plans. 

He  thought  he  was  alone  in  the  gloom  until  he  was 
startled  by  the  sound  of  a  man's  voice  almost  at  his 
elbow. 

"Evenin',  Mr,  Gwynne." 


CHAPTER  XII 

ISAAC    STAIN    APPEARS    BY   NIGHT 

WHIRLING,  he  made  out  the  lank  shadow  of  a 
man  leaning  against  a  tree  close  by. 

"Good  evening,"  he  muttered  in  some  con 
fusion,  conscious  of  a  sense  of  guilt  in  being  caught  in 
the  act  of  spying. 

"I've  been  follerin*  you  fer  quite  a  ways,"  observed 
the  unknown.  "Guess  you  don't  remember  me.  My 
name  is  Stain,  Isaac  Stain." 

"I  remember  you  quite  well,"  said  Kenneth,  stiffly. 
"May  I  inquire  why  you  have  been  following  me,  Mr. 
Stain?" 

"Well,  I  jest  didn't  know  of  anybody  else  I  could 
come  to  about  a  certain  matter.  It  has  to  do  with  that 
feller,  Lapelle,  up  yander  in  Trentman's  place.  Fust, 
I  went  up  to  Mrs.  Gwyn's  house,  but  it  was  all  dark, 
an'  nobody  to  home  'cept  that  dog  o'  her'n.  He  knowed 
me  er  else  he'd  have  jumped  me.  I  guess  we'd  better 
mosey  away  from  this  place.  A  good  many  trees  have 
ears,  you  know." 

They  walked  off  together  in  the  direction  of  town. 
Stain  was  silent  until  they  had  put  a  hundred  paces  or 
more  between  them  and  the  grove. 

"Seems  that  Violy  is  right  smart  taken  with  this 
Lapelle  feller,"  he  observed.  "Well,  I  thought  I'd 
oughter  tell  her  ma  what  I  heerd  about  him  to-day. 
Course,  everybody's  heerd  queer  things  about  him,  but 
this  beats  anything  I've  come  acrosst  yet.  Martin 

171 


172  VIOLA    GWYN 

Hawk's  daughter,  Moll,  come  hoofin*  it  up  to  my  cabin 
this  mornin'  an*  told  me  the  derndest  story  you've  ever 
heerd.  She  came  to  me,  she  sez,  on  account  of  me 
bein'  an  old  friend  of  Rachel's,  an'  she  claims  to  be  a 
decent,  honest  girl  in  spite  of  what  her  dodgasted  fa 
ther  is.  Everybody  believes  Mart  is  a  hoss  thief  an' 
sheep-stealer  an'  all  that,  but  he  hain't  ever  been  caught 
at  it.  He's  purty  thick  with  Barry  Lapelle.  Moll 
Hawk  sez  her  dad'll  kill  her  if  he  ever  finds  out  she 
come  to  me  with  this  story.  Seems  that  Barry  an* 
Violy  are  calculatin'  on  gettin*  married  an'  the  old 
woman  objects.  Some  time  this  past  week,  Violy  told 
Barry  she  wouldn't  marry  him  anywheres  'cept  in  her 
own  mother's  house.  Well,  from  what  Moll  sez,  Barry 
has  got  other  idees  about  it.'* 

He  paused  to  bite  off  a  fresh  chew  of  tobacco. 
"Go  on,  Stain.  What  did  the  girl  tell  you?" 
"  'Pears  that  Barry  ain't  willin'  to  take  chances  on 
gettin'  married  jest  that  way,  an*  besides  he's  sort  of 
got  used  to  havin'  anything  he  wants  without  waitin' 
very  long  fer  it.  Now,  I  don't  know  whuther  Violy's  a 
party  to  the  scheme  or  not, — maybe  she  is  an'  maybe 
she  ain't.  But  from  what  Moll  Hawk  sez  there's  a 
scheme  on  foot  to  get  the  best  of  Rachel  Gwyn  by 
grabbin'  Violy  some  night  an*  rushin*  her  to  a  hidin* 
place  down  the  river  where  Barry  figgers  he  c'n  per 
suade  her  to  marry  him  an*  live  happy  ever  after 
wards,  as  the  sayin*  is.  Seems  that  Barry  figgers  that 
you,  bein'  a  sort  o'  brother  to  her,  will  put  your  foot 
down  on  them  gettin'  married,  so  he's  goin*  to  get  her 
away  from  here  before  it's  too  late.  Moll  sez  it's  all 
fixed  up,  'cept  the  time  fer  doin*  it.  Martin  Hawk  an* 
a  half  dozen  fellers  from  some'eres  down  the  river  is  to 
do  the  job.  All  she  knows  is  it's  to  be  in  the  dark  o* 


ISAAC    STAIN    APPEARS         173 

the  moon,  an'  that's  not  fer  off.  Moll  sez  she  believes 
Violy  knows  about  the  plan  an'  sort  of  agrees  to — 

"I  don't  believe  it,  Stain,"  broke  in  Kenneth.  "She 
would  not  lend  herself  to  a  low-down  trick  like  that." 

Stain  shook  his  head.  "They  say  she's  terrible  in 
love  with  Barry,  an'  gosh  only  knows  what  a  woman'll 
stoop  to  in  order  to  git  the  man  she's  set  her  heart  on. 
Why,  I  could  tell  you  somethin'  about  a  woman  that 
was  after  me  some  years  back, — a  widder  down  below 
Vincennes, — her  husband  used  to  run  a  flatboat, — an', 
by  cracky,  Mr.  Gwynne,  you  wouldn't  believe  the  things 
she  done.  Chased  me  clean  down  to  Saint  Louis  an* 
back  ag'in,  an'  then  trailed  me  nearly  fifty  miles 
through  the  woods  to  an  Injin  village  on  the  White 
River.  I  don't  know  what  I'd  have  done  if  it  hadn't 
been  fer  an  Injin  I'd  befriended  a  little  while  back. 
He  shot  her  in  the  leg  an'  she  was  laid  up  fer  nearly 
six  weeks,  givin'  me  that  much  of  a  start.  That  was 
four  years  ago  an'  to  this  day  I  never  go  to  sleep  at 
night  without  fust  lookin'  under  the  bed.  Some  day  I'll 
tell  you  all  about  that  woman,  but  not  now.  I'm  jest 
tellin'  this  to  show  you  what  a  woman'll  do  when  she 
once  makes  up  her  mind,  an'  maybe  Violy  ain't  any  dif 
ferent  from  the  rest  of  'em." 

"Nevertheless,  Viola  is  not  that  kind,"  asserted 
Kenneth,  stubbornly.  "She  may  be  in  love  with  La- 
pelle,  but  if  she  has  made  up  her  mind  to  be  married  at 
her  mother's  house,  that's  the  end  of  it.  See  here, 
Stain,  I've  been  thinking  while  you  were  talking.  If 
there  is  really  anything  in  this  story,  I  doubt  the  wis 
dom  of  going  to  Mrs.  Gwyn  with  it,  and  certainly  it 
would  be  a  bad  plan  to  speak  to  Viola.  We've  got  to 
handle  this  matter  ourselves.  I  want  to  catch  Barry 
Lapelle  red-handed.  That  is  the  surest  way  to  con- 


174  VIOLA    GWYN 

vince  Viola  that  he  is  an  unworthy  scoundrel.  It  is  my 
duty  to  protect  my — my  sister — and  I  shall  find  a  way 
to  do  so,  whether  she  likes  it  or  not.  You  know,  per 
haps,  that  we  are  not  on  the  friendliest  of  terms." 

"Yep,  I  know,"  said  Stain.  "You  might  as  well 
know  that  I  am  on  their  side,  Mr.  Gwynne.  Whatever 
the  trouble  is  between  you  an'  them  two  women,  I  am 
for  them  an'  ag'in  you.  That's  understood,  ain't  it?" 

"It  is,"  replied  Kenneth,  impressed  by  the  hunter's 
frankness.  "But  all  the  more  reason  why  in  a  case  like 
this  you  and  I  should  work  hand  in  hand.  I  am  glad 
you  came  to  me  with  the  Hawk  girl's  story.  Hawk 
and  his  crew  will  find  me  waiting  for  them  when  they 
come.  They  will  not  find  their  job  a  simple  one." 

"I  guess  you'll  need  a  little  help,  Mr.  Gwynne,"  said 
Stain,  drily.  "What  are  you  goin'  to  do?  Call  in  a 
lot  o'  these  dodgasted  canary  birds  to  fight  the  hawks? 
If  you  do,  you'll  get  licked.  What  you  want  is  a  man 
er  two  that  knows  how  to  shoot  an'  is  in  the  habit  o* 
huntin'  varmints.  You  c'n  count  on  me,  Mr.  Gwynne, 
if  you  need  me.  If  you  feel  that  you  don't  need  me, 
jest  say  so,  an'  I'll  go  it  alone.  I  don't  like  Martin 
Hawk ;  we  got  a  grudge  to  settle,  him  an*  me.  So  make 
your  choice.  You  an'  me  will  work  in  cahoots  with 
each  other,  or  we'll  go  at  it  single-hand." 

"We  will  work  together,  Stain,"  said  Kenneth, 
promptly.  "You  know  your  man,  you  know  the  lay  of 
the  land,  and  you  are  smarter  than  I  am  when  it  comes 
to  handling  an  affair  of  this  kind.  I  will  be  guided  by 
you.  Shake  hands." 

The  two  men  shook  hands.  Then  the  lawyer  in 
Gwynne  spoke. 

"You  shonM  see  this  Hawk  girl  again  and  keep  in 


ISAAC    STAIN    APPEARS         175 

touch  with  their  plans.  We  must  not  let  them  catch 
us  napping." 

"She's  comin'  to  see  me  in  a  day  er  so.  Mart  Hawk 
went  down  to  Attica  to-day,  him  an'  a  feller  named 
Suggs  who's  been  soberin'  up  at  Mart's  fer  the  past 
few  days.  The  chances  are  he's  gone  down  there  on  this 
very  business." 

"Will  you  keep  in  touch  with  me  ?" 

"Yes,  sir.  If  you  ain't  got  anything  to  do  to-mor 
row,  you  might  ride  out  to  my  place,  where  we  c'n  talk 
a  little  more  free-like." 

"A  good  idea,  Stain.  You  are  sure  nothing  is 
likely  to  happen  to-night?" 

"Not  till  the  dark  o'  the  moon,  she  sez." 

"By  the  way,  why  is  she  turning  against  her  father 
like  this?" 

"Well,  you  remember  what  I  was  jest  sayin'  about 
women, — how  sot  they  are  in  their  ways  concarnin'  a 
man?  Well,  Moll  is  after  Barry  Lapelle, — no  question 
about  that.  She's  an  uncommon  good-lookin*  girl,  I 
might  say,  an'  I  guess  Barry  ain't  blind.  Course,  she's 
an  unedicated  girl  an'  purty  poor  trash, — you  couldn't 
expect  much  else  of  a  daughter  of  Martin  Hawk,  I 
guess, — but  that  don't  seem  to  make  much  difference 
when  it  comes  to  fallin'  in  love.  You  don't  need  to 
have  much  book  learnin'  fer  that.  I  could  tell  ye  about 
a  girl  I  used  to  know, — but  we'll  save  it  fer  some  other 
time." 

"I  see,"  mused  Kenneth,  reflectively.  "She  wants  La 
pelle  for  herself.  But  doesn't  she  realize  that  if  they 
attempt  this  outrage  her  own  father  stands  a  pretty 
good  chance  of  being  shot?" 

"Lord  love  ye,  that  don't  worry  her  none,"  explained 


176  VIOLA    GWYN 

the  hunter.  "She  don't  keer  much  what  happens  to 
him.  Why,  up  to  this  day  he  licks  the  daylights  out 
o'  her,  big  as  she  is.  You  c'n  hear  her  yell  fer  half  a 
mile.  That's  how  she  comes  to  be  a  friend  o'  mine.  I 
happened  to  be  huntin'  down  nigh  Mart's  place  last  fall 
an'  heerd  her  screamin', — you  could  hear  the  blows 
landin'  on  her  back,  too, — so  I  jest  stepped  sort  o'  spry 
to'ards  his  cabin  an'  ketched  him  layin*  it  on  with  a 
wilier  branch  as  thick  as  your  thumb,  an'  her  a 
screechin'  like  a  wild-cat  in  a  trap.  Well,  what  hap 
pened  inside  the  next  minute  made  a  friend  o'  her  fer 
life, — an'  an  enemy  o'  him.  You'd  have  thought  any 
dootiful  an'  loyal  offspring  would  o'  tried  to  pull  me 
off'n  him,  but  all  she  done  was  to  stand  back  an'  egg 
me  on,  'specially  when  I  took  to  tannin'  him  with  the 
same  stick  he'd  been  usin'  on  her.  Seems  like  Mart's 
never  felt  very  friendly  to'ards  me  sence  that  day." 

"I  shouldn't  think  he  would." 

"When  I  got  kind  o'  wore  out  with  wollopin*  him,  I 
sot  down  to  rest  on  the  edge  o'  the  waterin'  trough,  an' 
she  comes  over  to  me  an'  sez  she  wished  I'd  stay  an' 
help  her  bury  the  old  man.  She  said  if  I'd  wait  there 
she'd  go  an'  get  a  couple  o'  spades  out'n  the  barn, — 
well,  to  make  a  long  story  short,  soon  as  Mart  begin 
to  realize  he  was  dead  an'  wasn't  goin'  to  have  a  regu 
lar  funeral,  with  mourners  an'  all  that,  he  sot  up  an' 
begin  to  whine  all  over  ag'in.  So  I  up  an'  told  him 
if  I  ever  heerd  of  him  lickin'  his  gal  ag'in,  I'd  come 
down  an'  take  off  what  little  hide  there  was  left  on  him. 
He  said  he'd  never  lick  her  ag'in  as  long  as  he  lived.  So 
I  sez  to  Moll,  sez  I,  'If  you  ever  got  anything  to  com 
plain  of  about  this  here  white-livered  weasel,  you  jest 
come  straight  to  me,  an'  I'll  make  him  sorry  he  didn't 
get  into  hell  sooner.'  Well,  sir,  after  that  he  never 


ISAAC    STAIN    APPEARS         177 

licked  her  without  fust  tyin'  somethin'  over  her  "mouth 
so's  she  couldn't  yell,  an'  it  wasn't  till  this  afternoon 
that  I  found  out  he'd  been  at  it  all  along,  same  as  ever, 
'cept  when  Barry  Lapelle  was  there.  Seems  that  Barry 
stopped  him  from  lickin'  her  once,  an'  that  made  Moll 
f  oiler  him  around  like  a  dog  try  in*  to  lick  his  hand. 
No,  sir,  she  won't  be  heartbroke  if  somebody  puts  a 
rifle  ball  between  Mart's  eyes  an'  loses  it  some'eres 
back  inside  his  skull.  She'd  do  it  herself  if  she  wasn't 
so  doggoned  sure  somebody  else  is  goin*  to  do  it,  sooner 
or  later." 

"You  say  there  was  no  one  at  home  up  at  Mrs. 
Gwyn's?"  observed  Kenneth,  apprehensively.  "That's 
queer.  Where  do  you  suppose  they  are?" 

"That's  what  I'm  wonderin'  about.  Mrs.  Gwyn 
never  goes  nowhere,  'cept  out  to  the  farm,  an'  I'm 
purty  sure  she  didn't —  Say,  do  you  hear  somebody 
comin'  up  the  road  behind  us?" 

He  laid  a  hand  on  Kenneth's  arm  and  they  both 
stopped  to  listen. 

"I  hear  no  one,"  said  the  young  man. 

"Well,  you  ain't  got  a  hunter's  ears,"  said  the  other. 
"Some  one's  follerin'  us, — a  good  ways  back.  I've  got 
so's  I  c'n  hear  an  acorn  drop  forty  mile  away." 

They  drew  off  into  the  shadows  at  the  roadside  and 
waited.  Twenty  yards  or  more  ahead  gleamed  the 
lights  in  the  windows  of  the  nearest  store.  A  few 
seconds  elapsed,  and  then  Kenneth's  ears  caught  the 
sound  of  footsteps  in  the  soft  dirt  road,  and  presently 
the  subdued  murmur  of  voices. 

"Women,"  observed  Stain,  laconically,  lowering  his 
voice.  "Let  'em  pass.  If  we  show  ourselves  now, 
they'll  think  we're  highwaymen  or  something,  an'  begin 
screechin'  fer  dear  life." 


178  VIOLA    GWYN 

Two  vague,  almost  indistinguishable  figures  took 
shape  in  the  darkness  down  the  road  and  rapidly  drew 
nearer.  They  passed  within  ten  feet  of  the  two  men, — 
black  voiceless  shadows.  Stain's  hand  still  gripped  his 
companion's  arm.  The  women  had  almost  reached  the 
patches  of  light  cast  upon  the  road  from  the  store 
windows,  before  the  hunter  spoke. 

"Recognize  'em?"  he  whispered. 

"No." 

"Well,  I  guess  I  know  now  why  there  wasn't  nobody 
to  home  up  yander.  That  was  Violy  an'  her  ma." 

Kenneth  started.     "You — you  don't  mean  it!" 

"Yep.  An'  if  you  was  to  ask  me  what  they  air  doin* 
down  here  by  the  river  I'd  tell  you.  Mrs.  Gwyn  jest 
simply  took  Violy  down  there  to  Trentman's  shanty  an' 
showed  her  Barry  Lapelle  playin*  cards." 

"Impossible!     I  would  have  seen  them." 

"Not  from  where  you  stood.  The  winders  on  the 
river  side  air  open,  an'  you  c'n  see  into  the  house.  On 
the  side  facin'  this  way,  Jack's  got  curtains  hangin'. 
Well,  Mrs.  Gwyn  took  Violy  'round  on  t'other  side 
where  she  could  look  inside.  Maybe  you  didn't  hear 
what  they  was  sayin'  when  we  fust  heared  'em  talkin'. 
Well,  I  did.  I  heared  Violy  say,  plain  as  day,  'I  don't 
keer  what  you  say,  mother,  he  swore  to  me  he  never 
plays  except  fer  fun.'  An'  Rachel  Gwyn,  she  sez, 
'There  ain't  no  setch  thing  as  playin'  fer  fun  in  that 
place,  so  don't  talk  foolish.*  That's  all  I  heared  'em 
say, — an'  they  ain't  spoke  a  word  sence." 

"Come  along,  Stain,"  said  Kenneth,  starting  for 
ward.  "We  must  follow  along  behind,  to  see  that  they 
reach  home  safely." 

The  hunter  gave  vent  to  a  deprecating  grunt. 
"They  won't  thank  us  if  they  happen  to  turn  around 


ISAAC    STAIN    APPEARS         179 

an*  ketch  us  at  it.  'Sides,  I  got  to  be  startin'  to'ards 
home.  That  ole  hoss  o'  mine  ain't  used  to  bein*  out 
nights.  Like  as  not,  he's  sound  asleep  this  minute, 
standin'  over  yander  in  front  o'  Curt  Cole's  blacksmith 
shop,  an'  whenever  that  hoss  makes  up  his  mind  he's 
asleep  there  ain't  nothin'  that'll  convince  him  he  ain't. 
There  they  go,  turnin'  off  Main  street,  so's  they  won't 
run  across  any  curious-minded  saints.  Guess  maybe 
we'd  better  trail  along  behind,  after  all." 

Fifteen  minutes  later  the  two  men,  standing  back 
among  the  trees,  saw  lights  appear  in  the  windows  of 
Mrs.  Gwyn's  house.  Then  they  turned  and  wended 
their  way  toward  the  public  square.  They  had  spoken 
but  few  words  to  each  other  while  engaged  in  the 
stealthy  enterprise,  and  then  only  in  whispers.  No 
one  may  know  what  was  in  the  mind  of  the  hunter,  but 
in  Kenneth's  there  was  a  readjustment  of  plans.  A 
certain  determined  enthusiasm  had  taken  the  place  of 
his  previous  depression.  The  excitement  of  possible 
conflict,  the  thrill  of  adventure  had  wrought  a  com 
plete  change  in  him.  His  romantic  soul  was  aflame. 

"See  here,  Stain,"  he  began,  when  they  were  down 
the  slope;  "I've  been  thinking  this  matter  over  and  I 
have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  best  thing  for  me 
to  do  is  to  go  straight  to  Lapelle  and  tell  him  I  am 
aware  of  his — " 

"Say,  you're  supposed  to  be  a  lawyer,  ain't  you?" 
drawled  his  companion,  sarcastically. 

"Yes,  I  am,"  retorted  Kenneth. 

"Well,  all  I  got  to  say  is  you'd  make  a  better  wood- 
chopper.  Barry'd  jest  tell  you  to  go  to  hell,  an'  that'd 
be  the  end  of  it  as  fer  as  you're  concarned.  Course, 
he'd  give  up  the  plan,  but  he'd  make  it  his  business  to 
find  out  how  you  got  wind  of  it.  Next  thing  we'd 


180  VIOLA    GWYN 

know,  Moll  Hawk  would  have  her  throat  slit  er  some- 
thin', — an*  I  reckon  that  wouldn't  be  jest  what  most 
people  would  call  fair,  Mr.  Gwynne.  I  guess  we'd 
better  let  things  slide  along  as  they  air  an'  ketch  Mart 
an'  his  crowd  in  the  act.  You  don't  reckon  that  Barry 
is  goin'  to  take  a  active  part  in  this  here  kidnappin' 
job,  do  you?  Not  much  I  He  won't  be  anywheres  near 
when  it  happens.  He's  too  cute  fer  that.  You  won't 
be  able  to  fasten  anything  on  him  till  it's  too  late  to 
do  anything." 

Kenneth  was  properly  humbled.  "You  are  right, 
Stain.  If  you  hear  of  anybody  who  wants  to  have 
some  wood  chopped,  free  of  charge,  I  wish  you'd  let 
me  know." 

"Well,"  began  the  laconic  Mr.  Stain,  "it  takes  con 
siderable  practice  to  get  to  be  even  a  fair  to  middlin* 
woodchopper." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE    GRACIOUS    ENEMY 

BRIGHT  and  early  the  next  morning  Kenneth 
gave  orders  to  have  his  new  home  put  in  order 
for  immediate  occupancy.  Having  made  up  his 
mind  to  remain  in  Lafayette  and  face  the  consequences 
that  had  seemed  insurmountable  the  night  before,  he 
lost  no  time  in  committing  himself  to  the  final  resolve. 
Zachariah  was  despatched  with  instructions  to  lay 
in  the  necessary  supplies,  while  two  women  were  en 
gaged  to  sweep,  scrub  and  furbish  up  the  long  unin 
habited  house.  He  had  decided  to  move  in  that  very 
afternoon. 

Meanwhile  he  rented  an  "office"  on  the  north  side 
of  the  public  square,  a  small  room  at  the  back  of  a 
furniture  store,  pending  the  completion  of  the  two 
story  brick  block  on  the  south  side.  With  commenda 
ble  enterprise  he  lost  no  time  in  outfitting  the  tem 
porary  office  from  the  furniture  dealer's  stock.  His 
scanty  library  of  law  books, — a  half  dozen  volumes  in 
all, — Coke,  Kent  and  Chitty,  among  them, — had  been 
packed  with  other  things  in  the  cumbersome  saddle 
bags,  coming  all  the  way  from  Kentucky  with  him. 

Of  necessity  he  had  travelled  light,  but  he  had  come 
well  provided  with  the  means  to  purchase  all  that  was 
required  in  the  event  that  he  decided  to  make  La 
fayette  his  abiding  place. 

As  he  was  hurrying  away  from  the  tavern  shortly 

after   breakfast,   he   encountered   Lapelle    coming   up 

181 


182  VIOLA   GWYN 

from  the  stable-yard.  The  young  Louisianian  ap 
peared  to  be  none  the  worse  for  his  night's  dissipa 
tion.  In  fact,  he  was  in  a  singularly  amiable  frame  of 
mind. 

"Hello,"  he  called  out.  Kenneth  stopped  and 
waited  for  him  to  come  up.  "I'm  off  pretty  soon  for 
my  place  below  town.  Would  you  care  to  come  along? 
It's  only  about  eight  miles.  I  want  to  arrange  with 
Martin  Hawk  for  a  duck  shooting  trip  the  end  of  the 
week.  He  looks  after  my  lean-to  down  there,  and  he 
is  the  keenest  duck  hunter  in  these  parts.  Better  come 
along." 

"Sorry  I  can't  make  it,"  returned  Kenneth.  "I  am 
moving  into  my  house  to-day  and  that's  going  to  keep 
me  pretty  busy." 

"Well,  how  would  you  like  to  go  out  with  us  a  little 
later  on  for  ducks?" 

"I'd  like  to,  very  much.  That  is,  after  I've  got  thor 
oughly  settled  in  my  new  office,  shingles  painted,  and 
so  forth.  Mighty  good  of  you  to  ask  me." 

Barry  was  regarding  him  somewhat  narrowly. 

"So  you  are  moving  up  to  your  house  to-day,  are 
you?  That  will  be  news  to  Viola.  She's  got  the  whim 
that  you  don't  intend  to  live  there." 

"I  was  rather  undecided  about  it  myself, — at  least 
for  the  present.  I  am  quite  comfortable  here  at  Mr. 
Johnson's." 

"It  isn't  bad  here, — and  he  certainly  sets  a  good 
table.  Say,  I  guess  I  owe  you  a  sort  of  apology, 
Kenny.  I  hope  you  will  overlook  the  way  I  spoke  last 
night  when  you  said  you  couldn't  go  to  Jack  Trent- 
man's.  I  guess  I  was  a — well,  a  little  sarcastic,  wasn't 
I?" 

There  was  nothing  apologetic  in  his  voice  or  bear- 


THE    GRACIOUS    ENEMY        183 

ing.  On  the  contrary,  he  spoke  in  a  lofty,  casual  man 
ner,  quite  as  if  this  perfunctory  concession  to  the 
civilities  were  a  matter  of  form,  and  was  to  be  so  re 
garded  by  Gwynne. 

"I  make  it  a  rule  to  overlook,  if  possible,  anything 
a  man  may  say  when  he  is  drinking,"  said  Kenneth, 
smiling. 

Barry's  pallid  cheeks  took  on  a  faint  red  tinge;  his 
hard  eyes  seemed  suddenly  to  become  even  harder  than 
before. 

"Meaning,  I  suppose,  that  you  considered  me  a  trifle 
tipsy,  eh?"  he  said,  the  corner  of  his  mouth  going  up 
in  mirthless  simulation  of  a  grin. 

"Well,  you  had  taken  something  aboard,  hadn't 
you?" 

"A  drink  or  two,  that  was  all,"  said  the  other,  shrug 
ging  his  shoulders.  "Anyhow,  I  have  apologized  for 
jeering  at  you,  Gwynne,  so  I've  done  all  that  a  sober 
man  should  be  expected  to  do,"  he  went  on  carelessly. 
"You  missed  it  by  not  going  down  there  with  me  last 
night.  I  cleaned  'em  out." 

"You  did,  eh?" 

"A  cool  two  thousand,"  said  the  other,  with  a  satis 
faction  that  bordered  on  exultation.  "By  the  way, 
changing  the  subject,  I'd  like  to  ask  you  a  question. 
Has  a  mother  the  legal  right  to  disinherit  a  son  in  case 
said  son  marries  contrary  to  her  wishes?" 

Kenneth  looked  at  him  sharply.  Could  it  be  possible 
that  Lapelle's  mother  objected  to  his  marriage  with 
Viola,  and  was  prepared  to  take  drastic  action  in  case 
he  did  so? 

"Different  states  have  different  laws,"  he  answered. 
"I  should  have  to  look  it  up  in  the  statutes,  Barry." 

"Well,   what    is   your    own   opinion?"    insisted    the 


184  VIOLA    GWYN 

other,  impatiently.  "You  fellows  always  have  to  look 
things  up  in  a  book  before  you  can  say  one  thing  or 
another." 

"Well,  it  would  depend  largely  on  circumstances," 
said  Kenneth,  judicially.  "A  parent  can  disinherit  a 
child  if  he  so  desires,  provided  there  is  satisfactory 
cause  for  doing  so.  I  doubt  whether  a  will  would  stand 
in  case  a  parent  attempted  to  deprive  a  child  of  his  or 
her  share  of  an  estate  descending  from  another  parent 
who  was  deceased.  For  example,  if  your  father  left 
his  estate  to  his  widow  in  its  entirety,  I  don't  believe 
she  would  have  the  right  to  dispose  of  it  in  her  will 
without  leaving  you  your  full  and  legal  share  under 
the  statutes  of  this  or  any  other  state.  Of  course,  you 
understand,  there  is  nothing  to  prevent  her  making  such 
a  will.  But  you  could  contest  it  and  break  it,  I  am 
sure.'* 

"That's  all  I  want  to  know,"  said  the  other,  drawing 
a  deep  breath  as  of  relief.  "A  close  friend  of  mine  is 
likely  to  be  mixed  up  in  just  that  sort  of  unpleasant 
ness,  and  I  was  a  little  curious  to  find  out  whether  such 
a  will  would  stand  the  test." 

"Your  friend  should  consult  his  own  lawyer,  if  he 
has  one,  Lapelle.  That  is  to  say,  he  should  go  to  some 
one  who  knows  all  the  circumstances.  If  you  want  my 
advice,  there  it  is.  Don't  take  my  word  for  it.  It  is 
too  serious  a  matter  to  be  settled  off-hand, — and  my 
opinion  in  the  premises  may  be  absolutely  worth 
less." 

"I  was  only  asking  for  my  own  satisfaction,  Gwynne. 
No  doubt  my  friend  has  already  consulted  a  lawyer  and 
has  been  advised.  I  must  be  off.  Sorry  you  can't 
come  with  me." 

Kenneth  would  have  been  surprised  and  disturbed  if 


THE    GRACIOUS    ENEMY        185 

he  could  have  known  all  that  lay  behind  these  casual 
questions.  But  it  was  not  for  him  to  know  that  Viola 
had  repeated  Mrs.  Gwyn's  threat  to  her  impatient,  ar 
rogant  lover,  nor  was  it  for  him  to  connect  a  simple 
question  of  law  with  the  ugly  plot  that  had  been  re 
vealed  to  Isaac  Stain  by  Moll  Hawk. 

After  two  nights  of  troubled  thought,  Barry  La- 
pelle  had  hit  upon  an  extraordinary  means  to  circum 
vent  Rachel  Gwyn.  With  Machiavellian  cunning  he 
had  devised  a  way  to  make  Viola  his  wife  without 
jeopardizing  her  or  his  own  prospects  for  the  future. 
No  mother,  he  argued,  could  be  so  unreasonable  as  to 
disinherit  a  daughter  who  had  been  carried  away  by 
force  and  was  compelled  to  wed  her  captor  rather  than 
submit  to  a  more  sinister  alternative. 

Shortly  after  the  noon  meal,  Kenneth  rode  up  to  the 
old  Gwyn  house.  He  found  Zachariah  beaming  on  the 
front  door  step. 

"Yas,  suh, — yas,  suh!"  was  the  servant's  greeting. 
"Right  aroun'  dis  way,  Marse  Kenny.  Watch  out, 
suh,  ailse  yo'  scrape  yo'  hat  off  on  dem  branches." 

He  grasped  the  bit,  after  his  master  had  dismounted 
in  the  weed-covered  little  roadway  at  the  side  of  the 
house,  and  ceremoniously  waved  his  hand  toward  the 
open  door. 

"Step  right  in,  suh, — yas,  suh, — an*  make  yo'self  to 
home,  suh.  Sit  right  down  front  of  de  fiah,  Marse 
Kenny.  Ah  won't  be  more'n  two  shakes,  suh,  stablin' — 
yas,  suh !  Come  on  hyar,  yo'  Brandy  Boy  t  Ise  gwine 
show  yo'  whar  yo's  gwine  to  be  de  nappies'  hoss  in — 
yas,  suh, — yas,  suh !" 

The  young  man  looked  long  and  searchingly  through 
the  trees  before  entering  the  house,  but  saw  no  sign  of 
his  neighbours.  He  thought  he  detected  a  slight  move- 


186  VIOLA    GWYN 

ment  of  a  curtain  in  one  of  the  windows, — the  parlor 
window,  if  his  memory  served  him  right. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  before  he  saw  either  of 
his  relatives.  He  had  had  occasional  glimpses  of  the 
negro  servant-girl  and  also  of  a  gaunt  stable-man,  both 
of  whom  favoured  his  partially  obscured  abode  with 
frank  interest  and  curiosity.  A  clumsy,  silent  hound 
came  up  to  the  intervening  fence  several  times  during 
the  afternoon  and  inspected  the  newcomers  with  seem 
ing  indifference,  an  attitude  which  misled  Zachariah 
into  making  advances  that  were  received  with  alarming 
ill-temper. 

Kenneth  was  on  his  front  doorstep,  contemplating 
with  secret  despair  the  jungle  of  weeds  and  shrubbery 
that  lay  before  him,  completely  obliterating  the  an 
cient  path  down  to  the  gate.  The  whole  place  was 
overgrown  with  long,  broken  weeds,  battered  into  tan 
gled  masses  by  the  blasts  of  winter;  at  his  feet  were 
heaps  of  smitten  burdocks  and  the  dead,  smothered 
stems  of  hollyhocks,  geraniums  and  other  garden  plants 
set  out  and  nurtured  with  tender  care  by  Rachel  Gwyn 
during  her  years  of  occupancy.  The  house  needed 
painting,  the  roof  required  attention,  the  front  gate 
was  half  open  and  immovably  imbedded  in  the  earth. 

He  was  not  aware  of  Viola's  presence  on  the  other 
side  of  the  fence  dividing  the  two  yards  until  her  voice 
fell  upon  his  ears.  It  was  clear  and  sweet  and  ban 
tering. 

"I  suppose  you  are  wondering  why  we  haven't  weeded 
the  yard  for  you,  brother  Kenny." 

As  he  made  his  way  through  the  weeds  to  the  fence, 
upon  which  she  rested  her  elbows  while  she  gazed  upon 
him  with  a  mocking  smile  in  the  eyes  that  lay  far  back 
in  the  shovel-like  hood  of  her  black  quaker  bonnet,  he 


THE    GRACIOUS    ENEMY         187 

experienced  a  sudden  riotous  tumult  in  the  region  of  his 
heart.  Shaded  by  the  dark,  extended  wings  of  the 
bonnet,  her  face  was  like  a  dusky  rose  possessed  of  the 
human  power  to  smile.  The  ribbon,  drawn  close  under 
her  chin,  was  tied  in  a  huge  bow-knot,  while  at  the  back 
of  her  head  the  soft,  loose  cap  of  the  bonnet  fitted 
snugly  over  hair  that  he  knew  would  gleam  with  tints 
of  bronze  if  exposed  to  the  rays  of  the  sinking  sun. 

"Not  at  all,"  he  rejoined.  "I  am  wondering  just 
where  I'd  better  begin." 

"Did  you  find  the  house  all  right?" 

"Yes.     You  have  saved  me  a  lot  of  trouble,  Viola." 

"Don't  give  me  credit  for  it.  Mother  did  every 
thing.  I  suppose  you  know  that  the  furniture  and 
other  things  belong  to  you  by  rights.  She  didn't  give 
them  to  you  out  of  charity." 

"The  last  thing  in  the  world  I  should  expect  would 
be  charity  from  your  mother,"  he  said,  stung  by  the 
obvious  jibe. 

She  smiled  tolerantly.  "She  is  more  charitable  than 
you  imagine.  It  was  only  last  night  that  she  said  she 
wished  Barry  Lapelle  was  half  as  good  and  upright  as 
you  are." 

"That  was  very  kind  of  her.  But  if  such  were  the 
case,  I  dare  say  it  never  would  have  occurred  to  you 
to  fall  in  love  with  him." 

He  had  come  up  to  the  fence  and  was  standing  with 
his  hand  on  the  top  rail.  She  met  his  ironic  gaze  for 
a  moment  and  then  lowered  her  eyes. 

"I  wish  it  were  possible  for  us  to  be  friends,  Kenny," 
she  surprised  him  by  saying.  "It  doesn't  seem  right 
for  us  to  hate  each  other,"  she  went  on,  looking  up  at 
him  again.  "It's  not  our  fault  that  we  are  who  and 
what  we  are.  I  can  understand  mother's  attitude  to- 


188  VIOLA    GWYN 

ward  you.  You  are  the  son  of  another  woman,  and  I 
suppose  it  is  only  natural  for  her  to  be  jealous.  But 
you  and  I  had  the  same  father.  It — it  ought  to  be 
different  with  us,  oughtn't  it  ?" 

"It  ought  to  be, — and  it  shall  be,  Viola,  if  you  are 
willing.  It  rests  entirely  with  you." 

"It  is  so  hard  to  think  of  you  as  a  brother.  Some 
how  I  wish  you  were  not." 

"It  is  pretty  hard  luck,  isn't  it?  You  may  be  sure 
of  one  thing.  If  I  were  not  your  brother  I  would  be 
Barry  Lapelle's  most  determined  rival." 

She  did  not  laugh  at  this.  On  the  contrary,  her 
eyes  clouded. 

"The  funny  part  of  it  is,  Kenny,  I  have  been  won 
dering  what  would  have  happened  if  you  had  come 
here  as  a  total  stranger  and  not  as  my  relation."  Then 
she  smiled  whimsically.  "Goodness  knows  poor  Barry 
is  having  a  hard  enough  time  of  it  as  it  is,  but  what 
a  time  he  would  be  having  if  you  were  some  one  else. 
You  see,  you  are  very  good-looking,  Kenny,  and  I  am 
a  very  silly,  frivolous,  susceptible  little  goose." 

"You  are  nothing  of  the  kind,"  he  exclaimed  warmly, 
adding  in  some  embarrassment,  "except  when  you  say 
that  I  am  good-looking." 

"And  I  have  also  been  wondering  how  many  girls 
have  been  in  love  with  you,"  she  went  on  archly;  "and 
whether  you  have  a  sweetheart  now, — some  one  you 
are  engaged  to.  You  needn't  be  afraid  to  tell  me.  I 
can  keep  a  secret.  Is  there  some  one  back  in  Ken 
tucky  or  in  the  east  who — " 

"No  such  luck,"  whispered  simple,  honest  Kenneth. 
"No  one  will  have  me." 

"Have  you  ever  asked  anybody?"  she  persisted. 

"No,— I  haven't." 


THE    GRACIOUS    ENEMY         189 

"Then,  how  do  you  know  that  no  one  will  have  you?" 

"Well,  of  course,  I — I  mean  to  say  I  can't  imagine 
any  one  caring  for  me  in  that  way." 

"Don't  you  expect  ever  to  get  married?" 

"Why, — er, — naturally  I — "  he  stammered,  bewil 
dered  at  this  astonishing  attack. 

"Because  if  you  want  to  remain  a  bachelor,  I  would 
advise  you  not  to  ask  any  one  of  half  a  dozen  girls  in 
this  town  that  I  could  mention.  They  would  take  you 
so  quick  your  head  would  swim." 

By  this  time  he  had  recovered  himself.  Affecting 
grave  solicitude,  he  inquired: 

"Is  there  any  one  here  that  you  would  particularly 
desire  as  a  sister-in-law?" 

She  shook  her  head,  almost  pensively.  "I  don't  want 
you  to  bring  any  more  trouble  into  the  family  than 
you've  already  brought,  and  goodness  knows  that  would 
be  doing  it.  But  I  shouldn't  have  said  that,  Kenny. 
There  are  lots  of  fine,  lovely  girls  here.  I  wouldn't 
know  which  one  to  pick  out  for  you  if  you  were  to  ask 
me  to  do  your  choosing." 

"I  will  leave  it  entirely  in  your  hands,"  said  he, 
grinning  boyishly.  "Pick  me  out  a  nice,  amiable,  rather 
docile  young  lady, — some  one  who  will  come  the  nearest 
to  being  a  perfect  sister-in-law,  and  I  will  begin  spark 
ing  her  at  once.  By  the  way,  I  hope  matters  are  going 
more  smoothly  for  you  and  Barry." 

Her  face  clouded.  She  shot  a  suspicious,  question 
ing  look  at  him. 

"I — I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  Barry  some  day," 
she  said  seriously. 

"You  seemed  to  resent  it  most  bitterly  the  last  time 
I  attempted  to  talk  to  you  about  him,"  said  he,  some 
what  pointedly. 


190  VIOLA    GWYN 

"You  were  horrid  that  day,"  said  she.  "I  have  a 
good  deal  to  forgive.  You  said  some  very  mean,  nasty 
things  to  me  that  day  over  there,"  indicating  the 
thicket  with  a  jerk  of  her  head. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  that  you  took  them  to  heart  and 
have  profited,"  he  ventured  boldly. 

She  hesitated,  and  then  spoke  with  a  frankness  that 
shamed  him.  "Yes,  I  did  take  them  to  heart,  Kenny. 
I  will  not  say  that  I  have  profited,  but  I'll  never  make 
the  same  kind  of  a  fool  of  myself  again.  I  hated  you 
with  all  my  soul  that  day, — and  for  a  long  time  after 
ward, — but  I  guess  you  took  the  right  way  with  me, 
after  all.  If  I  was  fair  and  square,  I  would  say  that  I 
am  grateful  to  you.  But,  you  see,  I  am  not  fair  and 
square.  I  am  as  stubborn  as  a  mule." 

"The  best  thing  about  a  mule  is  that  he  takes  his 
whalings  without  complaining." 

She  sighed.  "I  often  wonder  what  a  mule  thinks 
about  when  he  stands  there  without  budging  while  some 
angry,  infuriated  man  beats  him  until  his  arm  gets 
tired." 

"That's  very  simple.  He  just  goes  on  thinking  what 
a  fool  the  man  is  for  licking  a  mule." 

"Good !  I  hope  you  will  remember  that  the  next  time 
you  try  to  reason  with  me." 

"What  is  it  you  want  to  say  to  me  about  Barry?" 
he  asked,  abruptly. 

"Oh,  there  is  plenty  of  time  for  that,"  she  replied, 
frowning.  "It  will  keep.  How  are  you  getting  along 
with  the  house?" 

"Splendidly.  It  was  in  very  good  order.  I  will  be 
settled  in  a  day  or  two  and  as  comfortable  as  anything. 
To-night  Zachariah  and  I  are  going  to  make  a  list  of 
everything  we  need  and  to-morrow  I  shall  start  out  on 


THE    GRACIOUS    ENEMY         191 

a  purchasing  tour.  I  intend  to  buy  quite  a  lot  of  new 
furniture,  things  for  the  kitchen,  carpets  and — " 

Viola  interrupted  him  with  an  exclamation.  Her  eyes 
were  shining,  sparkling  with  eagerness. 

"Oh,  won't  you  take  me  along  with  you?  Mr.  Hanna 
has  just  received  a  wonderful  lot  of  things  from  down 
the  river,  and  at  Benbridge  &  Foster's  they  have  a  new 
stock  of—" 

"Hurrah!"  he  broke  in  jubilantly.  "It's  just  what 
I  wanted,  Viola.  Now  you  are  being  a  real  sister  to 
me.  We  will  start  early  in  the  morning  and — and  buy 
out  the  town.  Bless  your  heart,  you've  taken  a  great 
load  off  my  mind.  I  haven't  the  intelligence  of  a  snipe 
when  it  comes  to  fitting  up  a — why,  say,  I  tell  you  what 
I'll  do.  I  will  let  you  choose  everything  I  need,  just  as 
if  you  were  setting  up  housekeeping  for  yourself.  Cur 
tains,  table  cloths,  carpets,  counterpanes,  china, 
Queensware,  chairs,  chests — " 

"Brooms,  clothes-pins,  rolling-pins,  skillets,  dough- 
bowls,  cutlery — 

"Bureaus,  looking-glasses,  wardrobe,  antimacassar 
tidies,  bedspreads,  towels — ': 

"Oh,  Kenny,  what  fun  we'll  have,"  she  cried.  "And, 
first  of  all,  you  must  let  me  come  over  right  now  and 
help  you  with  your  list.  I  know  much  better  than  you 
do  what  you  really  need, — and  what  you  don't  need. 
We  must  not  spend  too  much  money,  you  see." 

"  'Gad,"  he  gulped,  "you — you  talk  just  as  if  you 
and  I  were  a  poor,  struggling  young  couple  planning 
to  get  married." 

"No,  it  only  proves  how  mean  and  selfish  I  am.  I 
am  depriving  your  future  bride  of  the  pleasure  of  fur 
nishing  her  own  house,  and  that's  what  all  brides  like 
better  than  anything.  But  I  promise  to  pick  out 


192  VIOLA    GWYN 

things  that  I  know  she  will  like.  In  the  meantime,  you 
will  be  happy  in  knowing  that  you  have  something 
handsome  to  tempt  her  with  when  the  time  comes.  As 
soon  as  you  are  all  fixed  up,  you  must  give  a  party. 
That  will  settle  everything.  They'll  all  want  to  marry 
you, — and  they'll  have  something  to  remember  me  by 
^vhen  I'm  gone.  Come  on,  Kenny,  let's  go  in  and  start 
making  the  list." 

She  started  off  toward  her  own  gate,  but  stopped  as 
he  called  out  to  her. 

"Wait!  Are  you  sure  your  mother  will  approve  of 
your — " 

"Of  course  she  will!"  she  flung  back  at  him.  "She 
doesn't  mind  our  being  friendly.  Only," — and  she  came 
back  a  few  steps,  "I  am  afraid  she  will  never  be  friends 
with  you,  Kenny.  I  am  sorry." 

He  was  silent.  She  waited  for  a  moment  before 
turning  away,  shaking  her  head  slightly  as  if  attempt 
ing  to  dismiss  something  that  perplexed  her  sorely. 
There  was  a  yearning  in  his  eyes  as  they  followed  her 
down  to  the  gate ;  then  he  shot  a  quick,  accusing  glance 
at  the  house  in  which  his  enemy  lived.  He  saw  the  white 
curtains  in  the  north  parlor  window  drop  into  place, 
flutter  for  a  second  or  two,  and  then  hang  perfectly 
still.  Rachel  Gwyn  had  been  watching  them.  He  made 
no  effort  to  hide  the  scowl  that  darkened  his  brow  as  he 
continued  to  stare  resentfully  at  the  window. 

He  met  Viola  at  his  own  disabled  gate,  which  cracked 
and  shivered  precariously  on  its  rusty  hinges  as  he 
jerked  it  open. 

"I  lived  for  nearly  three  years  in  this  house,  Kenny," 
she  said  as  she  picked  her  way  through  the  weeds.  "I 
slept  on  a  very  hard  straw  tick  up  in  the  attic.  It 
was  dreadfully  cold  in  the  winter  time.  I  used  to  shiver 


THE    GRACIOUS    ENEMY         193 

all  night  long  curled  up  with  my  knees  up  to  my  chin. 
And  in  the  summer  time  it  was  so  hot  I  slept  with  abso 
lutely  nothing, — "  She  broke  off  in  sudden  confusion. 
"Our  new  house  is  only  about  a  year  old,"  she  went 
on  after  a  moment.  Pointing,  she  added:  "That  is 
my  bedroom  window  up  there.  You  can  get  a  glimpse 
of  it  through  the  trees  but  when  the  leaves  are  out 
you  can't  see  it  at  all  from  here." 

"I  shall  keep  an  eye  on  that  window,"  said  he,  with 
mock  severity,  "and  if  ever  I  catch  you  climbing  down 
on  a  ladder  to  run  away  with — well,  I'll  wake  the  dead 
for  miles  around  with  my  yells.  See  to  it,  my  dear 
sister,  that  you  attempt  nothing  rash  at  the  dead  hour 
of  night." 

She  laughed.  "Have  you  seen  our  dog?  I  pity  the 
valiant  knight  who  tries  to  put  a  ladder  up  to  my 
window." 

They  spent  the  better  part  of  an  hour  going  over 
the  house.  She  was  in  an  adorable  mood.  Once  she 
paused  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence  to  ask  why  he  was 
so  solemn. 

"Goodness  me,  Kenny,  you  look  as  if  you  had  lost 
your  very  best  friend.  Aren't  you  interested?  Shall 
we  stop?" 

A  feeling  of  utter  desolation  had  stricken  him.  He 
was  sick  at  heart.  Every  drop  of  blood  in  his  body 
was  crying  out  for  her.  Small  wonder  that  despair 
filled  his  soul  and  lurked  in  his  gloomy,  disconsolate 
eyes.  She  had  removed  her  bonnet.  If  he  had  thought 
her  beautiful  on  that  memorable  night  at  Striker's  he 
now  realized  that  his  first  impression  was  hopelessly 
inadequate.  Her  eyes,  dancing  with  eagerness,  no 
longer  reflected  the  disdain  and  suspicion  with  which 
she  had  regarded  him  on  that  former  occasion.  Her 


VIOLA    GWYN 

smile  was  frank  and  warm  and  joyous.  He  saw  her 
now  as  she  really  was,  incomparably  sweet  and  charm 
ing — and  so  his  heart  was  sick. 

"I  wouldn't  stop  for  the  world,"  he  exclaimed,  mak 
ing  a  determined  effort  to  banish  the  tell-tale  misery 
from  his  eyes. 

"I  know !"  she  cried,  after  a  searching  look  into  his 
eyes.  "You  are  in  love  with  some  one,  Kenny,  and 
you  are  wishing  that  she  were  here  in  my  place,  help 
ing  you  to  plan  the — " 

"Nonsense,"  he  broke  in  gruffly.  ''Put  that  out  of 
your  head,  Viola.  I  tell  you  there  is  no — er — no  such 
girl." 

"Then,"  she  said  darkly,  "it  must  be  the  dreadful 
extravagance  I  am  leading  you  into.  Goodness,  when 
I  look  at  this  list,  I  realize  what  a  lot  of  money  it  is 
going  to  take  to — " 

"We're  not  half  through,"  he  said,  "and  I  am  not 
thinking  of  the  expense.  I  am  delighted  with  every 
thing  you  have  suggested.  I  shudder  when  I  think 
how  helpless  I  should  have  been  without  you.  Didn't 
I  tell  you  in  the  beginning  that  I  wanted  you  to  fix 
this  house  up  just  as  if  you  were  planning  to  live  in 
it  yourself?  Put  down  all  the  things  you  would  most 
like  to  have,  Viola,  and — and — well,  confound  the  ex 
pense.  Come  along!  We're  losing  time.  Did  you  jot 
down  that  last  thing  we  were  talking  about?  That — 
er — that — "  He  paused,  wrinkling  his  forehead. 

"I  don't  believe  you  have  been  paying  any  attention 
to  what —  Now,  tell  me,  what  was  the  last  thing  we 
were  talking  about?" 

He  squinted  hard  at  the  little  blank  book  in  her 
hand.  She  closed  it  with  a  snap. 

"Have  you  got  it  down?"  he  demanded  severely. 


THE    GRACIOUS    ENEMY         195 

"I  have." 

"Then,  there's  no  use  worrying  about  it,"  he  said, 
with  great  satisfaction.  "Now,  let  me  see:  don't  you 
think  I  ought  to  have  a  clock  for  the  mantelpiece?" 

"I  put  that  down  half  an  hour  ago,"  she  said.  "The 
big  gold  French  clock  I  was  telling  you  about." 

"That's  so.  The  one  you  like  so  well  down  at 
Currie's." 

They  proceeded.  He  had  followed  about,  carrying 
the  ink  pot  into  which  she  frequently  dipped  the  big 
quill  pen.  She  overlooked  nothing  in  the  scantily  fur 
nished  house.  She  even  went  so  far  as  to  timidly  sug 
gest  that  certain  articles  of  furniture  might  well  be 
replaced  by  more  attractive  ones,  and  he  had  promptly 
agreed.  At  last  she  announced  that  she  must  go 
home. 

"If  you  buy  all  the  things  we  have  put  down  here, 
Kenny,  you  will  have  the  loveliest  house  in  Lafayette. 
My,  how  I  shall  envy  you !" 

"I  have  a  feeling  I  shall  be  very  lonely — amidst  all 
this  splendour,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  no,  you  won't.  I  shall  run  in  to  see  you  every 
whipstitch.  You  will  get  awfully  sick  of  having  me 
around." 

"I  am  thinking  of  the  time  when  you  are  married, 
Viola,  and, — and  have  gone  away  from  Lafayette." 

"Well,"  she  began,  her  brow  clouding,  "you  seem 
to  have  got  along  without  me  for  a  good  many  years, 
— so  I  guess  you  won't  miss  me  as  much  as  you  think. 
Besides,  we  are  supposed  to  be  enemies,  aren't  we?" 

"It  doesn't  look  much  like  it  now,  does  it?" 

"No,"  she  said  dubiously,  "but  I — I  must  not  do 
anything  that  will  make  mother  feel  unhappy  or — " 

He  broke  in  a  little  harshly.     "Are  you  forgetting 


196  VIOLA   GWYN 

how  unhappy  it  will  make  her  if  you  marry  Barry 
Lapelle?" 

"Oh,  that  may  be  a  long  way  off,"  she  replied  calmly. 
"You  see,  Barry  and  I  quarrelled  yesterday.  We  both 
have  vile  tempers, — perfectly  detestable  tempers.  Of 
course,  we  will  make  up  again — we  always  do — but 
there  may  come  a  time  when  he  will  say,  'Oh,  what's  the 
use  trying  to  put  up  with  you  any  longer?'  and  then  it 
will  all  be  over." 

She  was  tying  her  bonnet  strings  as  she  made  this 
astonishing  statement.  Her  chin  being  tilted  upward, 
she  looked  straight  up  into  his  eyes  the  while  her 
long,  shapely  fingers  busied  themselves  with  the  ribbons. 

"I  guess  you  have  found  out  what  kind  of  a  temper 
I  have,  haven't  you?"  she  added  genially.  As  he  said 
nothing  (being  unable  to  trust  his  voice)  :  "I  know  I 
shall  lead  poor  Barry  a  dog's  life.  If  he  knew  what 
was  good  for  him  he  would  avoid  me  as  he  would  the 
plague." 

He  swallowed  hard.  "You — you  will  not  fail  to 
come  with  me  to-morrow  morning  on  the  purchasing 
tour,"  he  said,  rather  gruffly.  "I'll  be  helpless  without 
you." 

"I  wouldn't  miss  it  for  anything,"  she  cried. 

As  they  walked  down  to  the  gate  she  turned  to  him 
and  abruptly  said: 

"Barry  is  going  down  the  river  next  week.  He  ex 
pects  to  be  away  for  nearly  a  fortnight.  Has  he  said 
anything  to  you  about  it?" 

Kenneth  started.  Next  week?  The  dark  of  the 
moon. 

"Not  a  word,"  he  replied  grimly. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A   MAN    FROM    DOWN    THE    RIVER 

KENNETH'S  first  night  in  the  old  Gwyn  house 
was  an  uneasy,  restless  one,  filled  with  tor 
menting  doubts  as  to  his  strength  or  even  his 
willingness  to  continue  the  battle  against  the  forces 
of  nature. 

Viola's  night  was  also  disturbed.  Some  strange, 
mysterious  instinct  was  at  work  within  her,  although 
she  was  far  from  being  aware  of  its  significance.  She 
lay  awake  for  a  long  time  thinking  of  him.  She  was 
puzzled.  Over  and  over  again  she  asked  herself  why 
she  had  blushed  when  he  looked  down  at  her  as  she 
was  tying  her  bonnet-strings,  and  why  had  she  felt  that 
queer  little  thrill  of  alarm?  And  why  did  he  look  at 
her  like  that?  She  answered  this  question  by  attribu 
ting  its  curious  intensity  to  a  brotherly  interest — which 
was  quite  natural — and  the  awakening  of  a  dutiful 
affection — but  that  did  not  in  any  sense  account  for 
the  blood  rushing  to  her  face,  so  that  she  must  have 
reminded  him  of  a  "turkey  gobbler."  She  announced 
to  her  mother  at  breakfast : 

"I  don't  believe  I  can  ever  think  of  Kenny  as  a 
brother." 

Rachel  Gwyn  looked  up,  startled.  "What  was  that 
you  called  him?"  she  asked. 

"Kenny.  He  has  always  been  called  that  for  short. 
And  somehow,  mother,  it  sounds  familiar  to  me.  Have 

I  ever  heard  father  speak  of  him  by  that  name?" 

197 


198  VIOLA    GWYN 

"I — I  am  sure  I  do  not  know,"  replied  her  mother 
uneasily.  "I  doubt  it.  It  must  be  a  fancy,  Viola." 

"I  can't  get  over  feeling  shy  and  embarrassed  when 
he  looks  at  me,"  mused  the  girl.  "Don't  you  think 
it  odd?  It  doesn't  seem  natural  for  a  girl  to  feel 
that  way  about  a  brother." 

"It  is  because  you  are  not  used  to  each  other,"  in 
terrupted  Rachel.  "You  will  get  over  it  in  time." 

"I  suppose  so.  You  are  sure  you  don't  mind  my  go 
ing  to  the  stores  with  him,  mother?" 

Her  mother  arose  from  the  table.  There  was  a 
suggestion  of  fatalism  in  her  reply.  "I  think  I  can 
understand  your  desire  to  be  with  him."  She  went 
to  the  kitchen  window  and  looked  over  at  the  house 
next  door.  "He  is  out  in  his  back  yard  now,  Viola," 
she  said,  after  a  long  pause,  "all  dressed  and  waiting 
for  you.  You  had  better  get  ready." 

"It  will  not  hurt  him  to  wait  awhile,"  said  Viola 
perversely.  "In  fact,  it  will  do  him  good.  He  thinks 
he  is  a  very  high  and  mighty  person,  mother."  She 
glanced  at  the  clock  on  the  kitchen  wall.  "I  shall 
keep  him  waiting  for  just  an  hour." 

Rachel's  strong,  firm  shoulders  drooped  a  little  as 
she  passed  into  the  sitting-room.  She  sat  down  ab 
ruptly  in  one  of  the  stiff  rocking-chairs,  and  one 
with  sharp  ears  might  have  heard  her  whisper  to  her 
self: 

"We  cannot  blindfold  the  eyes  of  nature.  They  see 
through  everything." 

It  was  nine  o'clock  when  Viola  stepped  out  into  her 
front  yard,  reticule  in  hand,  and  sauntered  slowly 
down  the  walk,  stopping  now  and  then  to  inspect  some 
Maytime  shoot.  He  was  waiting  for  her  outside  his 
own  gate. 


"What  a  sleepy-head  you  are,"  was  her  greeting  as 
she  came  up  to  him. 

"I've  been  up  since  six  o'clock,"  he  said. 

"Then,  for  goodness'  sake,  why  have  you  kept  me 
waiting  all  this  time?" 

"My  dear  Viola,  I  was  not  born  yesterday,  nor  yet 
the  day  before,"  he  announced,  with  aggravating  calm 
ness.  "Long  before  you  were  out  of  short  frocks  and 
pantalettes  I  was  a  wise  old  gentleman." 

"I  don't  know  just  what  you  mean  by  that." 

"I  learned  a  great  many  years  ago  that  it  is  always 
best  to  admit  you  are  in  fault  when  a  charming  young 
lady  says  you  are.  If  you  had  kept  me  waiting  till 
noon  I  should  still  consider  it  my  duty  to  apologize. 
Which  I  now  do." 

She  laughed  merrily.  "Come  along  with  you.  We 
have  much  to  do  on  this  fine  May  day.  First,  we  will 
go  to  the  hardware  store,  saving  the  queensware  store 
till  the  last, — like  float  at  the  end  of  a  Sunday  dinner. 

And  so  they  advanced  upon  the  town,  as  fine  a  pair 
as  you  would  find  in  a  twelvemonth's  search.  First 
she  conducted  him  to  Jimmy  Munn's  feed  and  wagon- 
yard,  where  he  contracted  to  spend  the  first  half-dollar 
of  the  expedition  by  engaging  Jimmy  to  haul  his  pur 
chases  up  to  the  house. 

"Put  the  sideboards  on  your  biggest  wagon,  Jimmy," 
was  Viola's  order,  "and  meet  us  at  Hinkle's." 

She  proved  to  be  a  very  sweet  and  delightful  auto 
crat.  For  three  short  and  joyous  hours  she  led  him 
from  store  to  store,  graciously  leaving  to  him  the  privi 
lege  of  selection  but  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  demon 
strating  that  he  was  entirely  wrong  in  his  choice, 
always  with  the  nai've  remark  after  the  purchase  was 
completed  and  the  money  paid  in  hand:  "Of  course, 


200  VIOLA    GWYN 

Kenny,  if  you  would  rather  have  the  other,  don't  for 
the  world  let  me  influence  you." 

"You  know  more  about  it  than  I  do,"  he  would  inva 
riably  declare.  "What  do  I  know  about  carpets?" — 
or  whateA'er  they  happened  to  be  considering  at  the 
time. 

She  was  greatly  dismayed,  even  appalled,  as  they 
wended  their  way  homeward,  followed  by  the  first 
wagonload  of  possessions,  to  find  that  he  had  spent 
the  stupendous,  unparalleled  sum  of  two  hundred  and 
forty-two  dollars  and  fifty  cents. 

"Oh,  dear!"  she  sighed.  "We  must  take  a  lot  of  it 
back,  Kenny.  Why  didn't  you  keep  track  of  what  you 
were  spending?  Why,  that's  nearly  a  fourth  of  one 
thousand  dollars." 

He  grinned  cheerfully.  "And  we  haven't  begun  to 
paint  the  house  yet,  or  paper  the  walls,  or  set  out  the 
flower  beds,  or — " 

"Goodness  me !"  she  cried,  aghast.  "You  are  not  go 
ing  to  do  all  that  now,  are  you?" 

"Every  bit  of  it,"  he  affirmed.  "I  am  going  to  rebuild 
the  barn,  put  in  a  new  well,  dig  a  cistern,  build  a  smoke 
house,  lay  a  brick  walk  down  to  the  front  gate  and 
put  up  a  brand  new  picket  fence — " 

"You  must  be  made  of  money,"  she  cried,  eyeing  him 
with  wonder  in  her  big,  violet  eyes. 

"I  am  richer  now  than  when  we  started  out  this 
morning,"  said  he,  magnificently. 

"When  you  say  things  like  that,  you  almost  make 
me  wish  you  were  not  my  brother,"  said  she,  after  a 
moment,  and  to  her  annoyance  she  felt  the  blood  mount 
to  her  face. 

"And  what  would  you  do  if  I  were  not  your  brother?" 
he  inquired,  looking  straight  ahead. 


FROM    DOWN    THE    RIVER       201 

Whereupon  she  laughed  unrestrainedly.  "You  would 
be  dreadfully  shocked  if  I  were  to  tell  you, — but  I  can't 
help  saying  that  Barry  would  be  so  jealous  he  would 
n't  know  what  to  do." 

"You  might  find  yourself  playing  with  fire." 

"Well,"  she  said,  flippantly,  "I've  got  over  wanting 
to  play  with  dolls.  Now  don't  scold  me!  I  can  see 
by  your  face  that  you'd  like  to  shake  me  good  and 
hard.  My,  what  a  frown !  I  am  glad  it  isn't  January. 
If  your  face  was  to  freeze —  There!  That's  better. 
I  shouldn't  mind  at  all  if  it  froze  now.  You  look  much 
nicer  when  you  smile,  Kenny."  Her  voice  dropped  a 
little  and  a  serious  expression  came  into  her  eyes.  "I 
don't  believe  I  ever  saw  father  smile.  But  I've  seen 
him  when  he  looked  exactly  as  you  did  just  then.  I — 
I  hope  you  don't  mind  my  talking  that  way  about  your 
father,  Kenny.  I  wouldn't  if  he  were  not  mine  as 
well." 

"You  knew  him  far  better  than  I,"  he  reminded  her. 
Then  he  added  brightly :  "I  shall  try  to  do  better  from 
now  on.  I'll  smile — if  it  kills  me." 

"Don't  do  that,"  she  protested,  with  a  pretty 
grimace.  "I've  been  in  mourning  for  ages,  it  seems,  and 
I'm  sure  I  should  hate  you  if  you  kept  me  in  black 
for  another  year  or  two." 

As  they  parted  at  Kenneth's  gate, — it  seemed  to  be 
mutely  understood  that  he  was  to  go  no  farther, — 
they  observed  a  tall,  black  figure  cross  the  little  front 
porch  of  the  house  beyond  and  disappear  through 
the  door.  Kenneth's  eyes  hardened.  The  girl,  looking 
up  into  those  eyes,  shook  her  head  and  smiled  wistfully. 

"Will  you  come  over  and  help  me  put  all  these 
things  where  they  belong?"  he  asked,  after  a  moment. 

"This  afternoon,  Kenny?" 


1202  VIOLA   GWYN 

"If  you  haven't  anything  else  you  would  rather — " 
he  began. 

"I  can't  wait  to  see  how  the  house  will  look  when 
we  get  everything  in  place.  I  will  be  over  right  after 
dinner, — unless  mother  needs  me  for  something." 

That  evening  Zachariah  was  noticeably  perturbed. 
He  had  prepared  a  fine  supper,  and  to  his  distress  it 
was  scarcely  touched  by  his  preoccupied  master.  Now, 
Zachariah  was  proud  of  his  cooking.  He  was  pleased 
to  call  himself,  without  fear  of  contradiction,  "a  nat- 
teral  bo'n  cook,  from  de  bottom  up."  Moreover,  his 
master  was  a  gentleman  whose  appetite  was  known  to 
be  absolutely  reliable;  it  could  be  depended  upon  at 
almost  any  hour  of  the  day  or  night.  Small  wonder 
then  that  Zachariah  was  not  only  mystified  but  grieved 
as  well.  He  eyed  the  solemn  looking  young  man  with 
anxiety. 

"Ain't  yo'  all  feelin'  well,  Marse  Kenneth?"  he  in 
quired,  with  a  justifiable  trace  of  exasperation  in 
his  voice. 

"What's  that,  Zachariah?"  asked  Kenneth,  startled 
out  of  a  profound  reverie. 

"Is  dey  anything  wrong  wid  dat  ham  er — " 
"It  is  wonderful,  Zachariah.     I  don't  believe  I  have 
ever  tasted  better  ham, — and   certainly   none   so  well 
broiled." 

"Ain't — ain't  de  co'n-bread  fitten  to  eat,  suh?" 
"Delicious,    Zachariah,    delicious.      You    have    per 
formed  wonders  with  the — er — new  baking  pan  and — " 
"What's  de  matteh  wid  dem  b'iled  pertaters,  suh?" 
"Matter  with  them?     Nothing!     They  are  fine." 
"Well,  den,  suh,  if  dere  ain't  nothin'  de  matteh  wid 


FROM    DOWN    THE    RIVER       203 

de  vittels,  dere  suttinly  mus'  be  somefin  de  matteh  wid 
you,  Mjarse  Kenneth.  Yo'  all  ain't  etten  enough  fo' 
to  fill  a  grasshoppeh." 

"I  am  not  hungry,"  apologized  his  master,  quite 
humbly. 

"'Cause  why?  Yas,  suh, — 'cause  why?"  retorted 
Zachariah,  exercising  a  privilege  derived  from  long  and 
faithful  service.  "  'Cause  Miss  Viola  she  done  got  yo' 
all  bewitched.  Can't  fool  dis  yere  nigger.  Wha'  fo'  is 
yo'  all  feelin'  dis  yere  way  'bout  yo'  own  sister?  Yas, 
suh, — Ah  done  had  my  eyes  open  all  de  time,  suh. 
Yo'  all  was  goin*  'round  lookin'  like  a  hongry  dog, 
'spectin' —  Yas,  suh!  Yas,  suh!  Take  plenty,  suh. 
Marse  Johnson  he  say  to  me,  he  say,  'Dis  yere  sap 
come  right  outen  de  finest  maple  tree  in  de  State  ob 
Indianny,  day  befo'  yesterday,'  he  say.  A  leetle  mo' 
coffee,  suh?  Yas,  suh!  Das  right!  Yo'  suttinly 
gwine  like  dat  ham  soon  as  ever  yo'  get  a  piece  in  yo' 
mouth, — yas,  suh!" 

Kenneth's  abstraction  was  due  to  the  never-vanish 
ing  picture  of  Viola,  the  sleeves  of  her  work-dress  rolled 
up  to  the  elbows,  her  eyes  aglow  with  enthusiasm,  her 
bonny  brown  hair  done  up  in  careless  coils,  her  throat 
bare,  her  spirits  as  gay  as  the  song  of  a  roistering 
gale.  She  had  come  over  prepared  for  toil,  an  ample 
apron  of  blue  gingham  shielding  her  frock,  her  skirts 
caught  up  at  the  sides,  revealing,  the  bottom  of  her 
white  petticoat  and  a  glimpse  of  trim,  shapely  ankles. 

She  directed  the  placing  of  all  the  furniture  carried 
in  by  the  grunting  Jimmy  Munn  and  Zachariah;  she 
put  the  china  safe  and  pantry  in  order;  she  superin 
tended  the  erection  of  the  big  four  poster  bed,  measured 
the  windows  for  the  new  curtains,  issued  irrevocable 


204  VIOLA    GWYN 

commands  concerning  the  hanging  of  several  gay  Eng 
lish  hunting  prints  (the  actual  hanging  to  be  done  by 
Kenneth  and  his  servant  in  a  less  crowded  hour, — after 
supper,  she  suggested)  ;  ordered  Zachariah  to  remove 
to  the  attic  such  of  the  discarded  articles  of  furniture 
as  could  be  carried  up  the  pole  ladder,  the  remainder 
to  go  to  the  barn;  left  instructions  not  to  touch  the 
rolls  of  carpet  until  she  could  measure  and  cut  them 
into  sections,  and  then  went  away  with  the  promise 
to  return  early  in  the  morning  not  only  with  shears 
and  needle  but  with  Hattie  as  well,  to  sew  and  lay 
the  carpets, — a  "Brussels'*  of  bewildering  design  and 
an  "ingrain"  for  the  bedroom. 

"When  you  come  home  from  the  office  at  noon, 
Kenny,  don't  fail  to  bring  tacks  and  a  hammer  with 
you,"  she  instructed,  as  she  fanned  her  flushed  face 
with  her  apron. 

"But  I  am  not  going  to  the  office,"  he  expostulated. 
"I  have  too  much  to  see  to  here.'* 

"It  isn't  customary  for  the  man  of  the  house  to  be 
anywhere  around  at  a  time  like  this,"  she  informed 
him,  firmly.  "Besides  you  ought  to  be  down  town 
looking  for  customers.  How  do  you  know  that  some 
one  may  not  be  in  a  great  hurry  for  a  lawyer  and  you 
not  there  to — " 

"There  are  plenty  of  other  lawyers  if  one  is  needed 
in  a  hurry,"  he  protested.  "And  what's  more,  I  can't 
begin  to  practise  law  in  this  State  without  going 
through  certain  formalities.  You  don't  understand 
all  these  things,  Viola." 

"Perhaps  not,"  she  admitted  calmly;  "but  I  do  un 
derstand  moving  and  house-cleaning,  and  I  know  that 
a  man  is  generally  in  the  way  at  such  times.  Oh,  don't 
look  so  hurt.  You  have  been  fine  this  afternoon.  I 


FROM    DOWN    THE    RIVER       205 

don't  know  how  I  should  have  got  along  without  you. 
But  to-morrow  it  will  be  different.  Hattie  and  I  will 
be  busy  sewing  carpets  and — and — well,  you  really  will 
not  be  of  any  use  at  all,  Kenny.  So  please  stay  away." 

He  was  sorely  disgruntled  at  the  time  and  so  dis 
consolate  later  on  that  it  required  Zachariah's  startling 
comment  to  lift  him  out  of  the  slough  of  despond. 
Spurred  by  the  desire  to  convince  his  servant  that  his 
speculations  were  groundless,  he  made  a  great  to-do 
over  the  imposed  task  of  hanging  the  pictures,  jesting 
merrily  about  the  possibility  of  their  heads  being 
snapped  off  by  Mistress  Viola  if  she  popped  in  the  next 
morning  to  find  that  they  had  bungled  the  job. 

Four  or  five  days  passed,  each  with  its  measure  of 
bitter  and  sweet.  By  the  end  of  the  week  the  carpets 
were  down  and  the  house  in  perfect  order.  He  invited 
her  over  for  Sunday  dinner.  A  pained,  embarrassed 
look  came  into  her  eyes. 

"I  was  afraid  you  would  ask  me  to  come,"  she  said 
gently.  "I  don't  think  it  would  be  right  or  fair  for  me 
to  accept  your  hospitality.  Wait !  I  know  what  you 
are  going  to  say.  But  it  isn't  quite  the  same,  you  see. 
Mother  has  been  very  kind  and  generous  about  letting 
me  come  over  to  help  you  with  the  house, — and  I  sup 
pose  she  would  not  object  if  I  were  to  come  as  your 
guest  at  dinner, — but  I  have  a  feeling  in  here  some 
where  that  it  would  hurt  her  if  I  came  here  as  your 
guest.  So  I  sha'n't  come.  You  understand,  don't 
you?" 

"Yes,"  he  said  gravely, — and  reluctantly.  "I  under 
stand,  Viola." 

Earlier  in  the  week  he  had  ridden  out  to  Isaac 
Stain's.  The  hunter  had  no  additional  news  to  give 
him,  except  that  Barry,  after  spending  a  day  with 


206  VIOLA    GWYN 

Martin  Hawk,  had  gone  down  to  Attica  by  flat-boat 
and  was  expected  to  return  to  Lafayette  on  the  packet 
Paul  Revere,  due  on  Monday  or  Tuesday. 

Lapelle's  extended  absence  from  the  town  was  full  of 
meaning.  Stain  advanced  the  opinion  that  he  had 
gone  down  the  river  for  the  purpose  of  seeing  a  Wil- 
liamsport  justice  of  the  peace  whose  record  was  none 
too  good  and  who  could  be  depended  upon  to  perform 
the  contemplated  marriage  ceremony  without  compunc 
tion  if  his  "palm  was  satisfactorily  greased." 

"If  we  could  only  obtain  some  clear  and  definite  idea 
as  to  their  manner  of  carrying  out  this  plan,"  said 
Kenneth,  "  I  would  be  the  happiest  man  on  earth.  But 
we  will  be  compelled  to  work  in  the  dark, — simply  wait 
ing  for  them  to  act." 

"Well,  Moll  Hawk  hain't  been  able  to  find  out  just 
yet  when  er  how  they're  goin'  to  do  it,"  said  Stain. 
"All  she  knows  is  that  two  or  three  men  air  comin'  up 
from  Attica  on  the  Paul  Revere  and  air  goin'  to  get  off 
the  boat  when  it  reaches  her  pa's  place.  Like  as  not 
this  scalawag  of  a  justice  will  be  one  of  'em,  but  that's 
guesswork.  That  reminds  me  to  ask,  did  you  ever  run 
acrosst  a  feller  in  the  town  you  come  from  named 
Jasper  Suggs?" 

"Jasper  Suggs  ?    I  don't  recall  the  name." 

"Well,  she  says  this  feller  Suggs  that's  been  stayin' 
at  Martin's  cabin  fer  a  week  er  two  claims  to  have 
lived  there  some  twenty  odd  years  ago.  Guess  you 
must  ha'  been  too  small  to  recollect  him.  She  says  he 
sort  of  brags  about  bein'  a  renegade  durin'  the  war 
an'  fightin'  on  the  side  of  the  Injins  up  along  the 
Lakes.  He's  a  nasty  customer,  she  says.  Claims  to 
be  a  relation  of  old  Simon  Girty's, — nephew  er  some 
thing  like  that." 


FROM    DOWN    THE    RIVER       207 

"Does  he  claim  to  have  known  any  of  my  family 
down  there?"  inquired  Kenneth,  apprehensively. 

"From  what  Moll  says  he  must  have  knowed  your 
pa.  Leastwise,  he  says  the  name's  familiar.  He 
was  sayin'  only  a  day  or  two  ago  that  he'd  like 
to  see  a  picter  of  your  pa.  He'd  know  if  it  was 
the  same  feller  he  used  to  know  soon  as  he  laid  eyes 
on  it." 

Kenneth  pondered  a  moment  and  then  said :  "Do  you 
suppose  you  could  get  a  letter  to  Moll  Hawk  if  I  were 
to  write  it,  Stain?" 

"I  could,"  said  the  other,  "but  it  wouldn't  do  any 
good.  She  cain't  read  er  write.  Besides,  if  I  was  you, 
I  wouldn't  risk  anything  like  that.  It  might  fall  into 
Hawk's  hands,  and  the  fust  thing  he  would  do  would 
be  to  turn  it  over  to  Lapelle, — 'cause  Martin  cain't 
read  himself." 

"I  was  only  wondering  if  she  could  find  out  a  little 
more  about  this  man  Suggs, — just  when  he  lived  there 
and — and  all  that." 

"He's  purty  close-mouthed,  she  says.  Got  to  be,  I 
reckon.  He  fell  in  with  Martin  ten  er  twelve  years  ago, 
an'  there  was  a  price  on  his  head  then.  Martin  hid 
him  for  awhile  an'  helped  him  to  git  safe  away.  Like 
as  not  Suggs  ain't  his  real  name  anyhow." 

Kenneth  was  a  long  time  in  deciding  to  speak  to 
Rachel  Gwyn  about  the  man  Suggs.  He  found  an  op 
portunity  to  accost  her  on  the  day  that  the  Paul  Re 
vere  came  puffing  up  to  the  little  log-built  landing  near 
the  ferry.  Viola  had  left  the  house  upon  learning  that 
the  boat  had  turned  the  bend  in  the  river  two  or  three 
miles  below  town,  and  had  made  no  secret  of  her  inten 
tion  to  greet  Lapelle  when  he  came  ashore.  This  was 
Gwynne's  first  intimation  that  she  was  aware  of  her 


208  VIOLA    GWYN 

lover's  plan  to  return  by  the  Paul  Revere.  He  was 
distinctly  annoyed  by  the  discovery. 

Rachel  was  in  her  back  yard,  feeding  the  chickens, 
when  he  came  up  to  the  fence  and  waited  for  her  to 
look  in  his  direction.  All  week, — in  fact,  ever  since 
he  had  come  up  there  to  live, — he  had  been  uncom 
fortably  conscious  of  peering  eyes  behind  the  curtains 
in  the  parlor  window.  Time  and  again  he  had  ob 
served  a  slight  flutter  when  he  chanced  to  glance  that 
way,  as  of  a  sudden  release  of  the  curtains  held  slightly 
apart  by  one  who  furtively  watched  from  within.  On 
the  other  hand,  she  never  so  much  as  looked  toward  his 
house  when  she  was  out  in  her  own  yard  or  while  pass 
ing  by  on  the  road.  Always  she  was  the  straight, 
stern,  unfriendly  figure  in  black,  wrapped  in  her  own 
thoughts,  apparently  ignorant  of  all  that  went  on 
about  her. 

She  turned  at  last  and  saw  him  standing  there. 

"May  I  have  a  word  with  you?"  he  said. 

She  did  not  move  nor  did  she  speak  for  many  sec 
onds,  but  stood  staring  hard  at  him  from  the  shade  of 
her  deep  black  bonnet. 

"What  is  it  you  want,  Kenneth  Gwynne?" 

"No  favour,  you  may  be  sure,  Rachel  Carter." 

She  seemed  to  wince  a  little.  After  a  moment's  hesi 
tation,  she  walked  slowly  over  to  the  fence  and  faced 
him. 

"Well?"  she  said  curtly. 

"Do  you  remember  a  man  at  home  named  Jasper 
Suggs?" 

"Are  you  speaking  of  my  old  home  in  Salem  or  of — 
of  another  place?" 

"The  place  where  I  was  born,"  he  said,  succinctly. 


FROM    DOWN    THE    RIVER       209 

"I  have  never  heard  the  name  before,"  she  said. 
"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"There  is  a  man  in  this  neighbourhood, — a  rascal,  I 
am  told, — who  says  he  lived  there  twenty  years  ago." 

She  eyed  him  narrowly.  "Well, — go  on!  What  has 
he  to  say  about  me?" 

"Nothing,  so  far  as  I  know.  I  have  not  talked  with 
him.  It  came  to  me  in  a  roundabout  way.  He  is  stay 
ing  with  a  man  named  Hawk,  down  near  the  Wea." 

"He  keeps  pretty  company,"  was  all  she  said  in  re 
sponse  to  this. 

"I  have  been  told  that  he  would  like  to  see  a  daguer 
reotype  of  my  father  some  time,  just  to  make  sure 
whether  he  was  the  Gwynne  he  used  to  know." 

"Has  he  ever  seen  you,  Kenneth  Gwynne?"  She 
appeared  to  be  absolutely  unconcerned. 

"No." 

"One  look  at  you  would  be  sufficient,"  she  said.  "If 
you  are  both  so  curious,  why  not  arrange  a  meeting?" 

"I  am  in  no  way  concerned,"  he  retorted.  "On  the 
other  hand,  I  should  think  you  would  be  vitally  inter 
ested,  Rachel  Carter.  If  he  knew  my  father,  he  cer 
tainly  must  have  known  you." 

"Very  likely.  What  would  you  have  me  do?"  she 
went  on  ironically.  "Go  to  him  and  beg  him  to  be 
merciful?  Or,  if  it  comes  to  the  worst,  hire  some  one 
to  assassinate  him?" 

"I  am  not  thinking  of  your  peace  of  mind.  I  am 
thinking  of  Viola's.  We  have  agreed,  you  and  I,  to 
spare  her  the  knowledge  of — " 

"Quite  true,"  she  interrupted.  "You  and  I  have 
agreed  upon  that,  but  there  it  ends.  We  cannot  in 
clude  the  rest  of  the  world.  Chance  sends  this  man, 


210  VIOLA   GWYN 

whoever  he  may  be,  to  this  country.  I  must  likewise 
depend  upon  Chance  to  escape  the  harm  he  may  be  in  a 
position  to  do  me.  Is  it  not  possible  that  he  may  have 
left  before  I  came  there  to  live?  That  chance  remains, 
doesn't  it?" 

"Yes,"  he  admitted.  "It  is  possible.  I  can  tell  you 
something  about  him.  He  is  related  to  Simon  Girty, 
and  he  was  a  renegade  who  fought  with  the  Indians  up 
north  during  the  war.  Does  that  throw  any  light  upon 
his  identity?" 

"He  says  his  name  is  Suggs?"  she  inquired. 

He  was  rewarded  by  a  sharp  catch  in  her  breath  and 
a  passing  flicker  of  her  eyes. 

"Jasper  Suggs." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "I  know  him,"  she  said 
calmly.  "His  name  is  Simon  Braley.  At  any  rate, 
there  was  a  connection  of  Girty's  who  went  by  that 
name  and  who  lived  down  there  on  the  river  for  a  year 
or  two.  He  killed  the  man  he  was  working  for  and 
escaped.  That  was  before  I — before  I  left  the  place. 
I  don't  believe  he  ever  dared  to  go  back.  So,  you  see, 
Chance  favours  us  again,  Kenneth  Gwynne." 

"You  forget  that  he  will  no  doubt  remember  you  as 
Rachel  Carter.  He  will  also  remember  that  you  had  a 
little  girl." 

"Let  me  remind  you  that  I  remember  the  cold-blooded 
murder  of  John  Hendricks  and  that  nobody  has  been 
hung  for  it  yet,"  she  said.  "My  memory  is  as  good  as 
his  if  it  should  come  to  pass  that  we  are  forced  to 
exchange  compliments.  Thank  you  for  the  informa 
tion.  The  sheriff  of  this  county  is  a  friend  of  mine. 
He  will  be  pleased  to  know  that  Simon  Braley,  mur 
derer  and  renegade,  is  in  his  bailiwick.  From  what  I 


FROM    DOWN    THE    RIVER       211 

know  of  Simon  Girty's  nephew,  he  is  not  the  kind  of 
man  who  will  be  taken  alive." 

He  started.  "You  mean, — that  you  will  send  the 
sheriff  out  to  arrest  him?'* 

She  shook  her  head.  "Not  exactly,"  she  replied. 
"Did  you  not  hear  me  say  that  Simon  Braley  would 
never  be  taken  alive?" 

With  that,  she  turned  and  walked  away,  leaving 
him  to  stare  after  her  until  she  entered  the  kitchen 
door.  He  was  conscious  of  a  sense  of  horror  that 
began  to  send  a  chill  through  his  veins. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE    LANDING    OF    THE    "PAUL   REVERE** 

THE  Paul  Revere  tied  up  at  the  landing  shortly 
after  two  o'clock.  The  usual  crowd  of  on 
lookers  thronged  the  bank,  attention  being  tem 
porarily  diverted  from  an  important  game  of  "horse 
shoes"  that  was  taking  place  in  the  sugar  grove  below 
Trentman's  shanty. 

Pitching  horseshoes  was  the  daily  fair-weather 
pastime  of  the  male  population  of  the  town.  At  one 
time  or  another  during  the  course  of  the  day,  prac 
tically  every  man  in  the  place  came  down  to  the  grove 
to  shy  horseshoes  at  the  stationary  but  amazingly 
elusive  pegs.  It  was  not  an  uncommon  thing  for  a 
merchant  to  close  his  place  of  business  for  an  hour  or 
so  in  order  to  keep  an  engagement  to  pitch  horseshoes 
with  some  time-honoured  adversary. 

On  this  occasion  a  very  notable  match  was  in  prog 
ress  between  "Judge"  Billings  and  Mr.  Pennington 
Sawyer,  the  real  estate  agent.  They  were  the  recog 
nized  champions.  Both  were  accredited  with  the  as 
tonishing  feat  of  ringing  eight  out  of  ten  casts  at 
twenty  paces ;  if  either  was  more  than  six  inches  away 
from  the  stake  on  any  try  the  crowd  mutely  attributed 
the  miss  to  inhibitions  of  the  night  before.  Not  only 
was  the  betting  lively  when  these  two  experts  met  but 
all  other  matches  were  abandoned  during  the  classic 
clash. 

The  "Judge"  did  not  owe  his  title  to  service  on  the 

212 


THE    LANDING  213 

bench  nor  even  at  the  bar  of  justice.  It  had  been 
bestowed  upon  him  by  a  liberal-minded  community  be 
cause  of  his  proficiency  as  a  judge  of  horse  races,  foot 
races,  shooting  matches,  dog  or  rooster  fights,  and 
other  activities  of  a  similar  character.  He  was,  above 
all  things,  a  good  judge  of  whiskey.  When  not  en 
gaged  in  judging  one  thing  or  another,  he  managed 
to  eke  out  a  comfortable  though  sometimes  perilous 
living  by  trading  horses, — a  profession  which  made 
him  an  almost  infallible  judge  of  men,  notwithstanding 
two  or  three  instances  where  he  had  erred  with  painful 
results  to  his  person.  Notably,  the  prodigious  thrash 
ing  Jake  Miller  had  given  him  two  days  after  a  certain 
trade,  and  an  almost  identical  experience  with  Bud 
Shanks  who  had  given  a  perfectly  sound  mare  and 
seventeen  dollars  to  boot  for  a  racehorse  that  almost 
blew  up  with  the  heaves  before  Bud  was  half-way  home. 

But,  whatever  his  reputation  may  have  been  as  a 
horse-trader,  "Judge"  Billings  was  unaffectedly  noble 
when  it  came  to  judging  a  contest  of  any  description. 
Par  and  wide  he  was  known  to  be  "as  honest  as  the  day 
is  long,"  proof  of  which  may  be  obtained  from  his  pub 
licly  uttered  contention  that  "nobody  but  a  derned 
fool  would  do  anything  crooked  while  a  crowd  was 
lookin'  on,  with  more'n  half  of  'em  carryin*  guns  or 
some  other  weapon  that  can't  be  expected  to  listen  to 
argument." 

He  was  Kenneth  Gwynne's  first  client.  In  employ 
ing  the  young  man  to  defend  a  suit  brought  by  Silas 
Kenwright,  he  ingenuously  announced  that  the  plaintiff 
had  a  perfectly  good  case  and  that  his  only  object  in 
fighting  the  claim  was  to  see  how  near  Silas  could  come 
to  telling  the  truth  under  oath.  Mr.  Kenwright  was 
demanding  twenty-five  dollars  damages  for  slander.  In 


214  VIOLA    GWYN 

the  complaint  Mr.  Billings  was  charged  with  having 
held  Mr.  Kenwright  up  to  ridicule  and  contumely  by 
asseverating  that  said  plaintiff  was  "a  knock-kneed, 
cross-eyed,  red-headed,  white-livered  liar." 

"The  only  chance  we've  got,"  he  explained  to 
Gwynne,  "is  on  the  question  of  his  liver.  We  can 
prove  he's  a  liar, — in  fact,  he  admits  that, — but,  dog 
gone  it,  he's  as  bow-legged  as  a  barrel  hoop,  he's  wall 
eyed,  and  what  little  hair  he's  got  is  as  black  as  the 
ace  o'  spades.  I  don't  suppose  the  Court  would  listen 
to  a  request  to  have  him  opened  up  to  see  what  colour 
his  liver  is, — and  that's  where  he's  got  us.  It  ain't 
so  much  being  called  a  liar  that  riles  him ;  he's  used  to 
that.  It's  being  called  knock-kneed  and  cross-eyed. 
He  don't  mind  the  white-livered  part  so  much,  or  the 
way  I  spoke  about  his  hair,  'cause  one  of  'em  you  can't 
see  an'  the  other  could  be  dyed  or  sheared  right  down 
to  the  skin  if  the  worst  came  to  the  worst.  If  I'd 
only  called  him  a  lousy,  ornery,  low-lived,  sheep-steal 
ing  liar,  this  here  suit  never  would  have  been  brought. 
But  what  did  I  do  but  up  and  hurt  his  feelings  by 
callin'  him  knock-kneed  and  cross-eyed.  That  comes 
of  not  stickin'  to  the  truth,  Mr.  Gwynne, — and  it's  a 
derned  good  lesson  for  me.  Honesty  is  the  best  policy, 
as  the  feller  says.  It'll  probably  cost  me  forty  or 
fifty  dollars  for  being  so  slack  with  my  veracity." 

Kenneth's  suggestion  that  an  effort  be  made  to  set 
tle  the  controversy  out  of  court  had  met  with  instant 
opposition. 

"It  ain't  to  be  thought  of,"  declared  Mr.  Billings 
firmly.  "Why,  dodgast  it,  you  don't  suppose  I'm  going 
to  pay  that  feller  any  money,  do  you?  Not  much !  I'm 
willing  enough  to  let  him  get  a  judgment  against  me 
for  any  amount  he  wants,  just  fer  the  fun  of  it,  but, 


THE    LANDING  215 

by  gosh,  when  you  begin  to  talk  about  me  giving  him 
money,  why,  that's  serious.  I'm  willing  to  pay  you 
your  ten  dollars  fee  and  the  court  costs,  but  the  only 
way  Si  Kenwright  can  ever  collect  a  penny  from  me 
will  be  after  I'm  dead  and  he  sneaks  in  when  nobody's 
around  and  steals  the  coppers  off  my  eyes." 

This  digression  serves  a  simple  purpose.  It  intro 
duces  a  sporty  gentleman  of  unique  integrity  whose 
friendship  for  Kenneth  Gwynne  flowered  as  time  went 
on  and  ultimately  bore  such  fruits  as  only  the  most 
favoured  of  men  may  taste.  In  passing  he  may  be  de 
scribed  as  a  pudgy,  middle-aged  individual,  with  mild 
blue  eyes,  an  engaging  smile,  cherubic  cheeks,  sandy 
hair,  and  a  highly  pitched,  far-reaching  voice.  He 
also  had  a  bulbous  nose  resembling  a  large,  ripe  straw 
berry. 

Before  coming  to  rest  alongside  the  wharf,  the  Paul 
Revere  indulged  in  a  vast  amount  of  noise.  She  whis 
tled  and  coughed  and  sputtered  and  gasped  with  all  the 
spasmodic  energy  of  a  choking  monster;  her  bells  kept 
up  an  incessant  clangour;  her  wheel  creaked  and  grov 
elled  on  the  bed  of  the  river,  churning  the  water  into  a 
yellowish,  foaming  mass ;  her  captain  bellowed  and 
barked,  her  crew  yelped,  her  passengers  shouted;  the 
flat  boats  and  perogues  moored  along  the  bank,  aroused 
from  their  lassitude,  began  to  romp  gaily  in  the  swirl 
of  her  crazy  backwash;  ropes  whined  and  rasped  and 
groaned,  the  deck  rattled  hollowly  with  the  tread  of 
heavy  feet  and  the  shifting  of  boxes  and  barrels  and 
crates;  the  gangplank  came  down  with  a  crash, — and 
so  the  mighty  hundred  and  fifty  ton  leviathan  of  the 
Wabash  came  to  the  end  of  her  voyage ! 

There  were  a  score  of  passengers  on  board,  among 
them  Barry  Lapelle.  He  kept  well  in  the  rear  of  the 


216  VIOLA   GWYN 

motley  throng  of  voyagers,  an  elegant,  lordly  figure, 
approached  only  in  sartorial  distinction  by  the  far- 
famed  gambler,  Sylvester  Hornaday,  who  likewise  held 
himself  sardonically  aloof  from  the  common  horde, 
occupying  a  position  well  forward  where,  it  might  aptly 
be  said,  he  could  count  his  sheep  as  they  straggled 
ashore. 

From  afar  Barry  had  recognized  Viola  standing 
among  the  people  at  the  top  of  the  bank,  and  his  eager, 
hungry  gaze  had  not  left  her.  She,  too,  had  caught 
sight  of  him  long  before  the  boat  was  near  the  landing. 
She  waved  her  kerchief. 

He  lifted  his  hat  and  blew  a  kiss  to  her.  A  thrill  of 
exultation  ran  through  him.  He  had  not  expected  her 
to  meet  him  at  the  landing.  Her  mere  presence  there 
was  evidence  of  a  determination  to  defy  not  only  her 
mother  but  also  to  brave  the  storm  of  gossip  that  was 
bound  to  attend  this  public  demonstration  of  loyalty 
on  her  part,  for  none  knew  so  well  as  he  how  the  towns 
people  looked  upon  their  attachment.  A  most  satisfy 
ing  promise  for  the  future,  he  gloated ;  here  was  the 
proof  that  she  loved  him,  that  her  tantalizing  outbursts 
of  temper  were  not  to  be  taken  seriously,  that  his  power 
over  her  was  irresistible.  There  were  times  when  he 
felt  uncomfortably  dubious  as  to  his  hold  upon  her 
affections.  She  was  whimsical,  perverse,  maddening  in 
her  sudden  transitions  of  mood.  And  she  had  threat 
ened  more  than  once  to  have  nothing  more  to  do  with 
him  unless  he  mended  his  ways !  Now  he  smiled  tri 
umphantly  as  he  gazed  upon  her.  All  that  pother 
about  nothing !  Henceforth  he  would  pay  no  attention 
to  her  whims ;  let  her  rail  and  fume  and  lecture  as  much 
as  she  liked,  there  was  nothing  for  him  to  be  worried 
about.  She  would  always  come  round  like  a  lamb, — 


THE    LANDING  217 

and  when  she  was  his  for  keeps  he  would  take  a  lot  of 
the  nonsense  out  of  her! 

With  few  exceptions  the  passengers  on  board  the 
Revere  were  strangers, — fortune-seekers,  rovers,  land- 
buyers  and  prospectors  from  the  east  and  south  come 
to  this  well-heralded  region  of  promise,  perhaps  to  stay, 
perhaps  to  pass  on.  Three  or  four  Lafayette  men, 
home  after  a  trip  down  the  river,  crowded  their  way 
ashore,  to  be  greeted  by  anxious  wives.  The  strangers 
were  more  leisurely  in  their  movements.  They  strag 
gled  ashore  with  their  nondescript  possessions  and 
ambled  off  between  two  batteries  of  frank,  appraising 
eyes. 

Judge  Billings,  shrewd  calculator  of  human  values, 
quite  audibly  disclosed  his  belief  that  at  least  three  of 
the  newcomers  would  have  to  be  run  out  of  town  be 
fore  they  were  a  day  older,  possibly  astraddle  of  a 
rail. 

One  of  these  marked  individuals  was  a  tall,  swart, 
bearded  fellow  with  black,  shifty  eyes  and  a  scowling 
brow.  His  baggage  consisted  of  a  buckskin  sack  slung 

oo      O  CT 

across  his  shoulder  and  a  small  bundle  which  he  car 
ried  under  his  arm.  He  appeared  to  have  no  acquaint 
ances  among  the  voyagers. 

"You  don't  know  how  happy  this  makes  me,  Viola," 
exclaimed  Lapelle  as  he  clasped  the  girl's  hand  in  his. 
He  was  devouring  her  with  a  bold,  consuming  gaze. 

She  reddened.  "I  told  mother  I  was  coming  down 
to  meet  you,"  she  explained,  visibly  embarrassed  by 
the  stares  of  those  nearby.  "I — I  wanted  to  see  you 
the  instant  you  arrived,  Barry.  Shall  we  walk  along 
slowly  behind  the  rest?" 

"What's  happened?"  he  demanded  suspiciously,  his 
brow  darkening. 


218  VIOLA   GWYN 

"Don't  be  impatient.  Wait  till  they  are  a  little 
ahead." 

"  'Gad,  it  sounds  ominous.  I  thought  you  came  down 
to  meet  me  because  you  love  me  and  were — well,  glad  to 
see  me." 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you.  You  didn't  expect  me  to 
make  an  exhibition  of  myself  before  all  those  people, 
did  you?" 

His  face  brightened.  "Well,  that  sounds  better." 
His  mouth  went  up  at  the  corner  in  its  habitual  curl. 
"I'd  give  all  ^  possess  if  it  was  dark  now,  so  that  I 
could  grab  you  and  squeeze  the — " 

"Sh!  They  will  hear  you,"  she  whispered,  drawing 
away  from  him  in  confusion. 

They  held  back  until  the  throng  had  moved  on  a 
short  distance.  Then  she  turned  upon  him  with  a  dan 
gerous  light  in  her  eyes. 

"And  what's  more,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "I  don't 
like  to  hear  you  say  such  things.  They  sound  so  cheap 
and  low — and  vulgar,  Barry.  I — " 

"Oh,  you're  always  jumping  on  me  for  saying  the 
things  I  really  feel,"  he  broke  in.  "You're  my  girl, 
aren't  you?  Why  shouldn't  I  tell  you  how  I  feel? 
What's  vulgar  about  my  telling  you  I  want  to  hold 
you  in  my  arms  and  kiss  you?  Why,  I  don't  think  of 
anything  else,  day  or  night.  And  what  do  I  get  ?  You 
put  me  off, — yes,  you  do ! — bringing  up  some  silly  no 
tion  about — about — what  is  it? — propriety!  Good 
Lord,  Viola,  that's  going  back  to  the  days  of  the  Puri 
tans, — whoever  they  were.  They  just  sat  around  and 
held  hands, — and  that's  about  all  I've  been  allowed  to 
do  with  you.  It's  not  right, — it's  not  natural,  Viola. 
People  who  are  really  in  love  with  each  other  just  sim 
ply  can't  help  kissing  and — " 


THE   LANDING 

"I  guess  you  were  right  when  you  said  you  were  not 
expecting  me  down  to  meet  the  boat,  Barry,"  she  inter 
rupted,  looking  straight  before  her. 

"Well,  didn't  I  tell  you  how  happy  it  made  me?" 

"If  you  had  thought  there  was  any  chance  of  me 
coming  down  to  meet  you,  you  wouldn't  have  taken  so 
much  to  drink,"  she  went  on,  a  little  catch  in  her  voice. 

Whereupon  he  protested  vigorously  that  he  had  not 
tasted  a  drop, — except  one  small  dram  the  captain  had 
given  him  early  that  morning  when  he  complained  of  tu 
chill. 

"Why,  you're  drunk  right  now,"  she  said  miserably. 
"Oh,  Barry,  won't  you  ever — " 

"Drunk?  I'm  as  sober  as  the  day  I  was  born,"  he 
retorted,  squaring  his  shoulders.  "Look  at  me, — look 
me  in  the  eye,  Viola.  Oh,  well,  if  you  won't  look  you 
won't,  that's  all.  And  if  I'm  as  drunk  as  you  imagine 
I  am  I  should  think  you'd  be  ashamed  to  be  seen  in 
my  company."  She  did  not  respond  to  this,  so,  with  a 
sneering  laugh,  he  continued:  "Suppose  I  have  had  a 
little  too  much, — who's  the  cause  of  it?  You!  You 
drive  me  to  it,  you  do.  The  last  couple  of  weeks  you've 
been  throwing  up  all  my  faults  to  me,  tormenting  me 
till  I'm  nearly  crazy  with  uncertainty.  First  you  say 
you'll  have  me,  that  you'll  do  anything  I  wish,  and 
then,  just  as  I  begin  to  feel  that  everything's  all  right, 
you  up  and  say  you're  not  sure  whether  you  care  for  me 
or  not  and  you're  going  to  obey  your  mother  in  every — 
And,  say,  that  reminds  me.  Unless  I  am  very  much 
mistaken,  I  think  I'll  soon  have  a  way  to  bring  your 
mother  to  time.  She  won't — " 

He  brought  himself  up  with  a  jerk,  realizing  that  his 
loose  tongue  was  running  away  with  his  wits.  She  was 
looking  at  him  with  startled,  inquiring  eyes. 


220  VIOLA    GWYN 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that,  Barry  Lapelle?"  she 
asked,  and  he  was  quick  to  detect  the  uneasiness  in  her 
manner. 

He  affected  a  grin  of  derision.  "I'm  going  to  put 
my  case  in  the  hands  of  Kenny  Gwynne,  the  rising 
young  barrister.  With  him  on  our  side,  my  dear,  I 
guess  we'll  bring  her  to  time.  All  he  has  to  do  is  to 
stand  up  to  her  and  say  he  isn't  going  to  put  up  with 
any  more  nonsense,  and  she'll  see  the  light  of  wisdom. 
If  he  thinks  it's  all  right  for  you  to  marry  me,  I  guess 
that  will  end  the  matter.  He's  the  head  of  the  family, 
isn't  he?" 

This  hastily  conceived  explanation  of  his  luckless 
remark  succeeded  in  deceiving  her.  She  stared  at  him 
in  distress. 

"Oh,  Barry,  you — you  surely  can't  be  thinking  of 
asking  Kenneth  to  intercede — " 

"Why  not?  He  doesn't  see  any  reason  why  we 
shouldn't  be  married,  my  dear.  In  fact,  he  told  me  so 
a  few  days  ago.  He — " 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  she  cried. 

"You  don't?"  he  exclaimed  sharply. 

"No,  I  don't,"  she  repeated. 

"Has  he  been  talking  to  you  about  me?"  he  de 
manded,  an  ugly  gleam  flashing  into  his  eyes. 

"He  has  never  said  a  word  against  you, — not  one. 
But  I  don't  believe  you  when  you  say  he  told  you  that 
we  ought  to  get  married."  She  felt  her  cheeks  grow 
hot.  She  had  turned  her  face  away  from  him. 

"I'm  a  liar,  am  I?"  he  snarled. 

"I — I  don't  believe  he  ever  said  it,"  she  said  stub 
bornly. 

"Well, — you're  right,"  he  admitted,  after  a  moment's 


THE    LANDING  221 

hesitation.  "Not  in  so  many  words.  But  he  did  say 
to  me  that  he  had  told  you  he  saw  no  reason  why  you 
shouldn't  marry  me  if  you  wanted  to.  Did  he  ever  tell 
you  that?" 

She  remembered  only  too  well  the  aggravating  en 
counter  in  the  thicket  path. 

"Yes,  he  did,"  she  replied,  lifting  her  head  defiantly. 
"And,"  she  added,  "I  hated  him  for  it.  I  hate  him 
more  and  more  every  time  I  think  of  it.  He — he  was 
perfectly  abominable." 

"Well,  you're — you're  damned  complimentary,"  he 
grated,  his  face  expressing  the  utmost  bewilderment. 

She  walked  on  for  eight  or  ten  paces  before  speak 
ing  again.  Her  head  was  lowered.  She  knew  that  he 
was  glaring  at  the  wing  of  the  bonnet  which  shielded 
her  whitening  cheek.  Suddenly  she  turned  to  him. 

"Barry,  let's  sit  down  on  that  log  over  there  for  a 
few  minutes.  There  is  something  I've  got  to  say  to 
you, — and  I'm  sorry.  You  must  not  be  angry  with  me. 
Won't  you  come  over  there  with  me, — and  listen  to  what 
I  have  to  tell  you?" 

He  hung  back  for  a  moment,  his  intuition  grasping 
at  something  vague  and  yet  strangely  definite. 

"You — you  are  going  to  tell  me  it's  all  over  be 
tween  us,  Viola?"  he  ventured,  going  white  to  the  lips. 
He  was  as  sober  now  as  though  he  had  neYer  touched 
liquor  in  his  life. 

"Come  and  sit  down,"  she  said  gently,  even  compas 
sionately. 

He  followed  her  in  silence  to  the  log  she  had  indi 
cated,  a  few  rods  back  from  the  roadside  at  the  edge 
of  the  clearing.  He  sat  down  beside  her  and  waited 
for  her  to  speak,  and  as  she  remained  speechless,  evi- 


222  VIOLA    GWYN 

dently  in  distress,  his  lips  curled  in  a  smile  of  reviving 
confidence.  He  watched  the  quick  rise  and  fall  of  her 
bosom,  exulting  in  her  difficulty. 

Birds  were  piping  among  the  fresh  green  twigs  over 
head.  The  air  was  redolent  of  the  soft  fragrance  of 
May:  the  smell  of  the  soil,  the  subtle  perfume  of  un 
born  flowers,  the  tang  of  the  journeying  breeze,  the 
spice  of  sap-sweating  trees.  The  radiance  of  a  warm, 
gracious  sun  lay  soft  upon  the  land. 

At  last  she  spoke,  not  tremulously  as  he  had  ex 
pected  but  with  a  firmness  that  boded  ill  for  his  com 
posure. 

"Barry,"  she  began,  still  staring  straight  ahead,  "I 
don't  know  just  how  to  begin.  It  is  awfully  hard  to — 
to  say  what  I  feel  I  must  say.  Perhaps  I  should  have 
waited  till — well,  till  you  were  home  for  a  little  while, — 
before  doing  what  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  do.  But 
I  thought  it  right  to  have  it  over  with  as  soon  as  pos 
sible." 

She  paused  for  a  moment  and  then  resolutely  faced 
him.  He  saw  the  pain  in  her  dark,  troubled  eyes,  and 
the  shadow  of  an  appealing  smile  on  her  lips.  His  face 
hardened. 

"So,"  she  went  on  unflinchingly,  "I  came  down  to  the 
landing  to  meet  you  in  case  you  were  on  the  Paid  Re 
vere.  I  cannot  marry  you,  Barry.  I — I  don't  love 
you  as  I  should.  I  thought  I  did  but — but — well,  that's 
all.  I  don't  know  what  has  happened  to  make  me  see 
things  so  differently,  but  whatever  it  is  I  know  now 
that  I  was  mistaken, — oh,  so  terribly  mistaken.  I  know 
I  am  hurting  you,  Barry, — and  you  have  a  right  to 
despise  me.  I — I  somehow  hope  you  will, — because  I 
deserve  it." 

He  smiled  indulgently.     "I  hope  you  don't  think  I 


THE    LANDING  223 

am  taking  this  seriously.  This  isn't  the  first  time  I've 
heard  you  take  on  like — " 

"But  I  mean  it  this  time,  Barry, — I  do  truly  and 
honestly,"  she  cried.  "I  know  I've  played  hot  and  cold 
with  you, — and  that's  just  the  point.  It  proves  that 
I  never  really  cared  for  you  in — in  that  way — down 
in  my  soul,  I  mean.  I  am  sure  of  it  now.  I  have  been 
dreadfully  unhappy  about  it, — because,  Barry  dear,  I 
can't  bear  to  hurt  you.  We  are  not  suited  to  each 
other.  We  think  differently  about  a  great  many  things. 
We—" 

"Look  here,"  he  exclaimed  roughly,  no  longer  able  to 
disguise  his  anger;  "you've  got  to  stop  this  everlast- 
ing— » 

"Let  go  of  my  arm,  Barry  Lapelle!"  she  cried. 
"Don't  you  dare  lay  your  hand  on  me  like  that !" 

He  loosened  his  grip  on  her  arm  and  drew  back 
sulkily.  "Ah, — I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you  and  you 
know  it.  I  wouldn't  hurt  you  for  anything  in  the 
world.  I'm  sorry  if  I  was  rough  with — " 

"I  don't  blame  you,"  she  broke  in,  contritely.  "I 
guess  it  would  serve  me  right  if  you  beat  me  black  and 
blue." 

"What  I  was  going  to  say,"  he  growled,  controlling 
himself  with  difficulty,  "is  this :  if  you  think  I'm  going 
to  take  this  as  final,  you're  very  much  mistaken. 
You'll  get  over  this,  just  as  you've  gotten  over  your 
peevishness  before.  I've  spoiled  you,  that's  the  truth  of 
the  matter.  I  always  give  in  to  you — " 

"I  tell  you  I  am  in  earnest,"  she  cried  hotly.  "This 
is  for  good  and  all, — and  you  make  me  furious  when 
you  talk  like  that.  I  am  doing  my  best  to  be  kind  and 
considerate,  so  you'd  better  be  careful,  Barry  Lapelle, 
not  to  say  too  much." 


224  VIOLA    GWYN 

He  looked  into  her  flaming  eyes  for  a  moment  and 
then  muttered  slowly,  wonderingly:  "By  heaven,  Viola, 
I  believe  you  do  mean  it.  You — you  are  actually 
throwing  me  over, — giving  me  the  mitten?" 

"I  can't  help  it,  Barry,"  she  insisted.  "Something, 
— I  don't  know  what, — has  come  over  me.  Nothing 
seems  to  be  the  same  as  it  used  to  be.  I  only  know  that 
I  cannot  bear  the  thought  of — why,  Barry  dear,  for 
the  past  three  or  four  nights  Fve  lain  awake  for  hours 
thinking  of  the  awful  consequences  if  we  had  succeeded 
in  making  our  escape  that  night,  and  had  been  married 
as  we  planned.  How  terrible  it  would  have  been  if  I 
had  found  out  too  late  that  I  did  not  love  you, — and 
we  were  tied  to  each  other  for  life.  For  your  sake  as 
well  as  my  own,  Barry.  Can  you  imagine  anything 
more  horrible  than  to  be  married  to  a  woman  who — 
who  didn't  love  you?" 

"Yes,"  he  snapped,  "I  can.  It's  worse  a  thousand 
times  over  not  to  be  married  to  the  girl  you  love, — and 
to  see  her  married  to  some  one  else.  That  would  be 
hell, — hell,  do  you  understand?" 

She  drew  a  little  away  from  him.  "But  not  the  hell 
it  would  be  for  me  when  I  found  out — too  late.  Won't 
you  understand,  Barry?  Can't  you  see  how  terrible  it 
would  be?" 

"Say,  when  did  you  get  this  idea  into  your  head?" 
he  demanded  harshly.  "What  put  it  there?  You  were 
loving  me  hard  enough  a  while  ago, — couldn't  get  along 
without  me,  you  claimed.  Now  you're  singing  another 
tune.  Look  here!  Is — is  there  some  one  else?" 

"You  know  there  isn't,"  she  cried  indignantly. 
"Who  else  could  there  be?  I>on't  be  foolish,  Barry." 

"By  God,  if  some  one  else  has  cut  me  out,  I'll — 
I'll—" 


THE    LANDING  225 

"There  is  no  one  else,  I  tell  you!  I  don't  love  any 
body, — I  swear  it." 

He  eyed  her  narrowly.  "Has  Kenny  Gwynne  any 
thing  to  do  with  all  this?'* 

She  started.  "Kenny?  Why, — no, — of  course  not. 
What  on  earth  could  he  have  to  do  with  my  loving  or 
not  loving  you?" 

"It  would  be  just  like  him  to  turn  you  against  me 
because  he  thinks  I'm  not  fit  to —  Say,  if  I  find  out 
that  he's  been  sticking  his  nose  into  my  affairs,  I'll 
make  it  so  hot  for  him, — brother  or  no  brother, — that 
he'll  wish  he'd  never  been  born.  Wait  a  minute!  I'll 
tell  you  what  I  think  of  him  while  I'm  about  it — and 
you  can  run  and  tell  him  as  quick  as  you  please.  He's 

a  G —  d snake  in  the  grass,  that's  what  he  is. 

He's  a  conceited,  sanctimonious,  white-livered — 

"Stop  that!"  she  cried,  springing  to  her  feet,  white 
with  fury,  her  eyes  blazing.  "You  are  forgetting  your 
self,  Barry  Lapelle.  Not  another  word!  How  dare 
you  speak  like  that  about  my  brother?" 

He  sat  staring  up  at  her  in  a  sort  of  stupefaction. 

"How  dare  you?"  she  repeated  furiously. 

He  found  his  voice.  "You  weren't  sticking  up  for 
him  this  time  last  week,"  he  sneered.  "You  were  hat 
ing  him  like  poison.  Has  the  old  woman  had  a  change 
of  heart,  too?  Is  she  letting  him  sit  in  her  lap  so's 
she  can  feed  him  with  a  spoon  when  he's  hungry  and — " 

"I  wouldn't  marry  you  if  you  were  the  only  man  in 
the  world,  Barry  Lapelle,"  said  she,  her  voice  low  with 
passion. 

She  whirled  and  walked  rapidly  away  from  him,  her 
head  in  the  air,  her  hands  clenched.  Leaping  to  his 
feet,  he  started  after  her,  calling: 

"Wait  a  minute,  Viola!     Can't  you  see  I'm  almost 


226  VIOLA    GWYN 

out  of  my  head  over  what  you've —  Oh,  well,  go  it! 
I'm  not  going  to  crawl  after  you !  But  let  me  tell  you 
one  thing,  my  girl.  You'll  be  talking  out  of  the  other 
side  of  your  mouth  before  you're  much  older.  You'll 
be  down  on  your  knees — " 

"Don't  you  follow  me  another  step!"  she  cried  over 
her  shoulder. 

He  was  not  more  than  two  yards  behind  her  when 
she  uttered  this  withering  command.  He  stopped  short 
in  his  tracks. 

"Well,  this  is  a  hell  of  a  way  to  treat  a  gentleman!" 
he  shouted,  hoarse  with  fury. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

CONCERNING    TEMPESTS    AND    INDIANS 

SHORTLY  after  dark  that  evening,  the  tall, 
swarthy  man  who  had  come  up  on  the  Paul  Re 
vere  sauntered  slowly  up  and  down  that  part  of 
Main  Street  facing  the  Court  House.  Ostensibly  he 
was  inspecting  store  windows  along  the  way,  but  in 
reality  he  was  on  the  lookout  for  a  man  he  had  agreed 
to  meet  at  a  point  just  above  the  tavern, — a  casual 
meeting,  it  was  to  appear,  and  between  two  strangers. 

Barry  Lapelle  came  out  of  the  tavern  at  the  stroke 
of  eight  and  walked  eastward  a  few  paces,  halting  at 
the  dark  open  lot  between  Johnson's  place  and  Smith's 
store  beyond.  The  swarthy  man  approached  slowly, 
unconcernedly.  He  accosted  Lapelle,  inquiring: 

"Is  that  the  tavern,  Mister?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Barry,  needlessly  pointing  down  the 
street.  "Well?" 

"It's  her,"  said  the  stranger.  "I  had  a  good  look  at 
her  'long  about  five  o'clock  from  the  woods  across 
from  her  house.  She's  a  heap  sight  older  but  I  knowed 
her  all  right." 

"You  are  sure?" 

"Sure  as  my  name  is — " 

"Sh!" 

"Course  I'm  sure.  She  was  Owen  Carter's  widder. 
He  was  killt  by  a  tree  fallin'  on  him.  Oh,  I  got  a  good 
memory.  I  can't  afford  to  have  a  bad  one.  I  remem- 

227 


228  VIOLA    GWYN 

ber  her  as  plain  as  if  it  wuz  yestiday."  He  pointed 
off  in  a  westerly  direction  for  the  benefit  of  a  passerby. 
"Thank  ye,  mister.  You  say  it's  not  more'n  six  mile 
out  yan  way?'*  Lowering  his  voice,  he  went  on:  "A 
feller  wouldn't  be  likely  to  fergit  a  woman  like  her. 
Gosh,  I  used  to  wish — but  wishin'  don't  count  fer  much 
in  this  world." 

"Get  on  with  it.  We  can't  stand  here  talking  all 
night." 

"Well,  she's  the  woman  that  run  off  with  Bob 
Gwynne.  There  ain't  no  doubt  about  it.  Everybody 
knowed  it.  I  wuz  there  at  the  time,  workin'  fer  Ed 
Peters.  He  left  his  wife  an'  a  little  boy.  His  wife  was 
a  daughter  of  ole  Squire  Blythe, — damn  his  heart! 
He  had  me  hoss-whipped  in  public  fer — well,  fer  some 
triflin'  thing  I  done.  Seems  to  me  Mrs.  Carter  had  a 
little  baby  girl.  Maybe  not.  I  ain't  much  of  a  hand 
fer  noticin'  babies." 

"You  are  sure, — absolutely  positive  about  all  this?" 
whispered  Lapelle  intensely. 

"You  bet  yer  boots  I  am." 

"She  ran  off  with  a  married  man?" 

"She  did.  A  feller  by  the  name  o'  Gwynne,  as  I 
said  afore, — Bob  Gwynne.  An'  I  want  to  tell  you,  he 
got  out  o*  that  town  jest  in  time  or  I'd  have  slit  his 
gizzard  fer  him.  He  had  me  arrested  fer  stealin'  a 
saddle  an'  bridle.  He  never  would  have  got  away  ef 
I  hadn't  been  locked  up  in  Jim  Hatcher's  smokehouse 
with  two  men  settin'  outside  with  guns  fer  a  solid 
month,  keepin'  watch  on  me  day  an*  night.  I  wuz — ' 

"That's  all  for  to-night,"  snapped  Barry  impa 
tiently.  "You  get  out  of  town  at  once.  Mart  will  be 
waiting  for  you  down  below  Granny  Neff's  cabin, — 
this  side  of  the  tanyard, — as  arranged." 


TEMPESTS    AND    INDIANS      229 

"What  about  that  other  business?  Mart'll  want  to 
know  when  we're  to — " 

"He  knows.  The  Paul  Revere  goes  south  day  after 
to-morrow  morning.  If  the  plans  are  changed  before 
that  time,  I'll  get  word  to  him.  It  may  not  be  neces 
sary  to  do  anything  at  all.  You've  given  me  informa 
tion  that  may  bring  the  old  woman  to  her  senses." 

"Them  two  fellers  that  come  up  on  the  boat  to-day. 
Air  you  sure  you  c'n — 

"That's  all  for  to-night,"  interrupted  Barry,  and 
strode  off  up  the  street,  leaving  Jasper  Suggs,  some 
time  Simon  Braley  of  the  loathsome  Girty  stock,  to 
wend  his  lonely  way  out  into  a  silence  as  black  as  the 
depths  of  his  own  benighted  soul. 

The  night  was  sultry.  Up  in  the  marshy  fastnesses 
of  Lake  Stansbury  all  the  frogs  in  the  universe  seemed 
to  have  congregated  for  a  grand  festival  of  song.  The 
treble  of  baby  frogs,  the  diapason  of  ancient  frogs,  the 
lusty  alto  of  frogs  in  the  prime  of  life,  were  united  in 
an  unbroken,  penetrating  chant  to  the  starless  sky. 
The  melancholy  hoot  of  the  owl,  the  blithesome  chirp 
of  the  cricket,  even  the  hideous  yawp  of  the  roaming 
loon,  were  lost  in  the  din  and  clatter  of  Lake  Stans- 
bury's  mighty  chorus. 

There  was  promise  of  storm  in  the  lifeless  air. 
Zachariah,  resting  his  elbows  on  the  fence,  confided  this 
prognostication  to  an  almost  invisible  Hattie  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  barrier  between  two  back  yards. 

"Ah  allus  covers  my  haid  up  wid  de  blanket — an* 
de  bolster — an'  de  piller  when  hit's  astormin',"  said 
Hattie,  in  an  awed  undertone.  "An*  Ah  squeals  lak  a 
pig  ev'  time  hit  claps." 

"Shucks,  gal!"  scoffed  Zachariah.  "What  yo'  all 
so  skeert  o'  lightnin'  fo'?  Why,  good  Ian*  o'  Goshen, 


230  VIOLA    GWYN 

Ah  hain't  no  mo'  askeert  o'  storms  dan  Ah  is  ob — ob 
you!"  He  chuckled  rather  timorously  after  blurting 
out  this  inspired  and  (to  him)  audacious  remark.  To 
his  relief  and  astonishment,  Hattie  was  not  offended. 

"Ah  bet  yo'  all  hain't  see  no  setch  thunderstorms  as 
we  has  'round  dis  yere  neck  o'  de  woods,"  said  she,  with 
conviction.  "Ah  bet  yo'  be  skeert  ef  you — " 

"Don'  yo'  talk  to  me,  gal,"  boasted  Zachariah. 
"Wuzzin  Ah  in  de  wustest  storm  dis  yere  valley  has 
seed  sence  dat  ole  Noah  he  climb  up  in  dat  ole  ark  an' 
sez,  'Lan'  sakes,  Ah  wonder  ef  Ah  done  gone  an'  fergit 
anyt'ing.'  Yes,  ma'am, — dat  evenin'  out  to  Marse 
Striker's — dat  wuz  a  storm,  gal.  Wuz  Ah  skeert? 
No,  suh!  Ah  stup  right  out  in  de  middle  of  it,  lightnin' 
strikin*  all  'round  an'  de  thunder  so  turrible  Marse 
Kenneth  an'  ever'body  ailse  wuz  awonderin'  ef  de  good 
Lord  could  hear  'em  prayin'  fo'  mercy.  Yas,  suh — 
yas,  suh!  Dat's  de  gospel  trufe.  An'  me  right  out 
dere  in  dat  ole  barnyard  doin*  de  chores  fo'  ole  Mis' 
Striker.  Marse  Kenneth  he  stick  his  haid  out'n  de 
winder  an'  yell,  'Zachariah,  yo'  come  right  in  heah 
dis  minnit !  Yo'  heah  me  ?  Wha'  yo'  all  doin'  out  dere 
in  dat  hell-fire  an'  brimstone?  Ah  knows  yo*  is  de 
bravest  nigger  in  all  dis  world,  but  fo'  mah  sake, 
Zachariah,  won't  yo'  please  come  in?'  Well,  suh,  jes* 
den  Ah  happens  to  look  up  from  what  Ah  wuz  doin' 
an'  sees  a  streak  o'  lightnin'  comin'  straight  to'ards 
de  cabin.  So  Ah  yells  fo'  him  to  pull  his  haid  in 
mighty  quick,  an'  shore  'miff  he  got  it  in  jes'  in  de 
nick  o*  time.  Dat  streak  o'  lightnin'  went  right  pass 
de  winder  an'  hit  de  groun'.  Den  hit  sort  o'  bounce 
up  in  de  air  an*  lep  right  over  mah  haid  an*  hitten  a 
tree—" 


TEMPESTS    AND    INDIANS      231 

"Wuz  hit  rainin'  all  dis  time?" 

"Rainin'?  Mah  lan%  gal,  course  hit  wuz  rainin'," 
replied  Zachariah,  somewhat  testily.  "Hitten  a  tree 
not  more'n  ten  foot  from  where  Ah  wuz — " 

"Hain't  yo'  all  got  no  sense  at  all,  nigger?"  de 
manded  Hattie,  witheringly.  "Don*  yo'  know  'nough 
to  go  in  out'n  de  rain?" 

Zachariah  was  flabbergasted.  Here  was  a  bolt  from 
a  supposedly  clear  and  tranquil  sky;  it  flattened  him 
out  as  no  stroke  of  lightning  could  ever  have  done. 
For  once  in  his  life  he  was  rendered  speechless. 

Hattie,  who  had  got  religion  on  several  unforgetta 
ble  occasions  and  was  at  this  very  time  on  the  point  of 
returning  to  the  spiritual  fold  which  she  had  more  or 
less  secretly  abandoned  at  the  behest  of  the  flesh,  re 
garded  this  as  an  excellent  opportunity  to  re-establish 
herself  as  a  disciple  of  salvation. 

"An*  what's  more,  nigger,"  she  went  on  severely, 
"ef  de  good  Lord  ever  cotch  setch  a  monst'ous  liar  as 
yo'  is  out  in  a  hurricane  lak  what  yo'  all  sez  it  wuz, 
dere  wouldn't  be  no  use  buryin'  what  wuz  lef  of  yo'. 
'Cause  why,  'cause  yo'  jes'  gwine  to  be  a  lil  black 
cinder  no  bigger'n  a  chinkapin.  I  knows  all  about  how 
brave  yo'  wuz  out  to  Marse  Striker's.  Miss  Violy  she 
done  tell  how  yo'  all  snuck  under  de  table  an'  prayed 
an'  carried  on  somefin'  scan'lous." 

Zachariah,  though  crushed,  made  a  noble  effort  to 
extricate  himself  from  the  ruins.  "Ah  lak  to  know 
what  Miss  Violy  knows  about  me  on  dat  yere  occasion. 
Yas,  suh, — dat's  what  Ah  lak  to  know.  She  never  lay 
eyes  on  me  dat  night.  'Ca'se  why?  'Ca'se  I  wuz  out 
in  de  barnlot  all  de  time.  She  done  got  me  contwisted 
wid  dat  other  fool  nigger,  dat's  what  she  done." 


232  VIOL^A    GWYN 

"What  other  fool  nigger?" 

"Didden  she  tell  yo'  all  about  dat  nigger  we  fotch 
along  up  from  Graff ordsville  to — 

"Yas,  suh,  she  done  tole  all  about  dat  Craff ordsville 
nigger,  ef  dat's  de  one  yo'  means." 

Zachariah  was  staggered.  "She — she  tole  yo'  about 
— about  dat  Craffordsville  nigger?" 

"Yas,  suh, — she  did.  Miss  Violy  she  say  he  wuz 
de  han'-somest  boy  she  ever  did  see, — great  big  strap- 
pin'  boy  wid  de  grandest  eyes  an' — " 

"Dat's  enough, — dat'll  do,"  exclaimed  Zachariah  in 
considerable  heat.  "Marse  Kenneth  he  got  to  change 
his  tune,  dat's  all  I  got  to  say.  He  say  Ah  am  de 
biggest  liar  in  dis  yere  land, — but,  by  golly,  he  ain'  ever 
heared  about  dis  yere  gal  Hattie.  No,  suh!  When  Ah 
lies,  Ah  lies  about  somefin',  but  when  yo'  lies,  yo'  jes' 
lies  about  nuffin', — 'ca'se  why?  'Ca'se  dat  Craffords 
ville  nigger  he  ain*  nuffin'.  Yo'  ought  to  be  'shamed  o' 
yo'self,  nigger,  makin'  out  Miss  Violy  to  be  a  liar  lak 
dat, — an'  her  bein*  de  fines'  lady  in — " 

"Go  on  'way  wid  yo',  nigger,"  retorted  Hattie  airily. 
"I>on'  yo'  come  aroun'  heah  no  mo'  makin'  out  how 
brave  yo'  is, — 'ca'se  Ah  knows  a  brave  nigger  when  Ah 
sees  one,  lemme  tell  yo*  dat,  Mistah  Zachariah  What- 
ever-yo'-name  is." 

Silence  followed  this  Parthian  shot.  Zachariah,  be 
ing  a  true  philosopher,  rested  his  case  without  further 
argument.  He  appeared  to  have  given  himself  up  to 
reflection.  Presently  Hattie,  tempering  her  voice  with 
honey,  remarked: 

"Ah  suttinly  is  mighty  glad  yo'  is  come  up  yere  to 
live,  Zachariah?' 

"Look  here,  gal, — don'  ^yo'  go  countin'  on  me  too 
enuch,"  said  he,  suspiciously.  "Ah  got  all  Ah  c'n  do 


TEMPESTS    AND    INDIANS      233 

'tendin'  to  mah  own  wo'k  'thout  comin'  over  yander 
an'  hulpin'  yo' — " 

"Lan's  sakes,  man,  'tain't  mah  look-out  ef  yo*  come 
over  yere  an'  tote  mah  clo'se-basket  an'  ev'thing  'round 
fo'  me, — no,  suh!  Ah  ain*  nev'  ast  yo',  has  Ah?  All 
Ah  does  is  to  hole  Cato  so  he  won't  chaw  yo'  laig  off 
when  yo'  come  botherin'  me  to  please  'low  yo'  to  hulp 
me, — das  all  Ah  do.  An'  lemme  tell  yo*,  nigger,  dat 
ain'  no  easy  job.  'Ca'se  ef  dere's  one  t'ing  Cato  do 
enjoy  hit's  dark  meat, — yas,  suh,  hit's  come  so  he 
won't  even  look  at  light  meat  no  mo',  he  so  sick  o' 
feedin'  ofPn  dese  yere  white  shin-bones." 
.  "Well,  den,  why  is  yo'  glad  Ah  come  up  yere  to 
live?"  demanded  Zachariah  defensively. 

"  'Ca'se  o'  dis  yere  ole  Black  Hawk." 

"Ah  don'  know  nuffin'  'bout  no  ole  Black  Hawk." 

"Yo*  all  gwine  to  know  'bout  him  mighty  quick,"  said 
she  solemnly.  "He's  on  de  rampage.  Scalpin'  an' 
burnin'  white  folks  at  de  stake  an'  des  wallerin'  in 
blood.  Yas,  suh, — Ah  suttinly  ain't  gwine  feel  so 
skeert  o'  dat  ole  Black  Hawk  'long  as  yo'  is  livin'  right 
nex*  do',  Zachariah." 

"Wha*  yo'  all  talkin*  about?" 

"Marse  Joe, — he  de  sheriff  dis  yere  county, — he  done 
tole  ole  Mis'  Gwyn  dis  evenin'  all  de  news  'bout  dat 
ole  Black  Hawk.  Yas,  suh, — ole  Black  Hawk  he  on  de 
warpath.  All  de  Injuns  in  dis  yere — " 

"Injuns?"  gulped  Zachariah. 

"Dey  all  got  dere  warpaint  on  an*  dere  tommy- 
hawks — " 

"How  come  Marse  Kenneth  he  don*  know  nuffin'  'bout 
all  dis?"  demanded  Zachariah,  taking  a  step  or  two 
backward  and  glancing  anxiously  over  one  shoulder, 
then  the  other.  "He  a  lawyer.  How  come  he  don' 


234  VIOLA    GWYN 

know  nuffin'  'bout —  Say,  how  close  dat  ole  sheriff  say 
dem  Injuns  is?" 

"Dat's  what  I  can't  make  out,  Zachariah.  He  talk 
so  kind  o'  low  an'  me  lettin'  de  dishpan  drop  right  in 
de  middle—" 

"Ah  guess  Ah  better  go  right  straight  in  de  house 
an'  tell  Marse  Kenneth  'bout  dis,"  hastily  announced 
Zachariah.  Then  he  bethought  himself  to  add: 
"  'Ca'se  me  an'  him  got  a  lot  to  do  ef  dese  here  Injuns 
come  'roun'  us  lookin'  fo'  trouble.  Yas,  suh!  Ah  got 
to  git  de  guns  an'  pistols  an'  huntin'  knives  all  ready 
fo'— " 

The  words  froze  on  his  lips.  A  low,  blood-curdling 
moan  that  seemed  to  end  in  a  gasp, — or  even  a  death- 
rattle, — fell  upon  the  ears  of  the  two  negroes.  It  was 
close  at  hand, — not  more  than  twenty  feet  away.  This 
was  succeeded,  after  a  few  seconds  of  intense  stillness 
— (notwithstanding  the  uproarious  frogs !) — by  a  hair- 
raising  screech  from  Hattie.  An  instant  later  she  was 
scuttling  for  her  own  kitchen  door,  emitting  inarticu 
late  cries  of  terror. 

As  for  Zachariah?  His  course  was  a  true  one  so  far 
as  direction  was  concerned.  Blind  instinct  located  the 
back  door  for  him  and  he  made  a  bee-line  toward  it 
regardless  of  all  that  lay  between.  First  he  encoun 
tered  a  tree-stump.  This  he  succeeded  in  passing  with 
out  the  slightest  deviation  from  the  chosen  route. 
Scrambling  frantically  to  his  feet  after  landing  with  a 
mighty  grunt  some  two-  yards  beyond  the  obstacle,  he 
dashed  onward,  tearing  his  way  through  a  patch  of 
gooseberry  bushes,  coming  almost  immediately  into 
contact  with  the  wood-pile.  Here  he  was  momentarily 
retarded  in  his  flight.  There  was  a  great  scattering 
of  stove-wood  and  chips,  accompanied  by  suppressed 


TEMPESTS    AND    INDIANS      235 

howls,  and  then  he  was  on  his  feet  again.  Almost 
simultaneously  the  heavy  oak  door  received  and  with 
stood  the  impact  of  his  flying  body ;  a  desperate  clawing 
at  the  latch,  the  spasmodic  squeak  of  rusty  hinges,  a 
resounding  slam,  the  jar  of  a  bolt  being  shot  into  place, 
— and  Zachariah  vociferously  at  prayer  in  a  sanctuary 
behind  the  kitchen  stove. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

REVELATIONS 

THAT  sepulchral  groan  had  issued  not  from  a 
mortal  in  the  agony  of  impending  death  but 
from  the  smiling  red  lips  of  Viola  Gwyn.     The 
grewsome  "death-rattle"  was  the  result  of  the  means 
she  took  to  suppress  a  shriek  of  laughter  by  frantically 
clapping  both  hands  to  her  convulsed  mouth. 

jFor  some  time  she  had  been  standing  at  the  fence, 
her  elbows  on  the  top  rail,  gazing  pensively  at  the  light 
in  Kenny's  window.  A  clump  of  honeysuckle  bushes 
was  between  her  and  the  unsuspecting  servants.  At 
first  she  had  paid  little  or  no  attention  to  the  gabble 
<of  the  darkies,  her  thoughts  being  centred  on  her  own 
serious  affairs.  She  had  been  considerably  shaken  and 
distressed  by  the  unpleasant  experience  of  the  early 
afternoon.  Somehow  she  longed  to  take  her  troubles 
'to  Kenneth,  to  rid  herself  of  them  in  the  comfort  of  his 
"approbation,  to  be  reassured  by  his  brotherly  counsel. 
She  knew  he  was  sitting  beside  the  table  in  the  cosy 
'Sitting-room,  poring  over  one  of  his  incomprehensible 
law  books.  How  jolly,  how  consoling  to  her  own  agi 
tated  mind,  if  she  could  only  be  there  in  the  same  room 
with  him,  quiet  as  a  mouse  so  as  not  to  disturb  his 
profound  studies,  and  reposing  in  that  comfortable  new 
rocker  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table  where  she  could 
watch  the  studious  frown  on  his  brow  while  she  waited 
patiently  for  him  to  lay  aside  the  book. 

Indeed,  she  had  come  out  of  the  house  animated  by 

236 


REVELATIONS  237 

a  sudden  impulse  to  pay  him  a  brief,  surreptitious 
visit;  then  to  run  back  home  before  she  was  missed  by 
her  mother.  This  impulse  was  attended  by  a  singularly 
delightful  sensation  of  guilt.  She  had  never  been  over 
to  see  him  at  night.  In  fact,  it  had  never  occurred  to 
her  to  do  such  a  thing  before.  But  even  as  she  started 
forth  from  the  house,  a  strange  timidity  assailed  her. 
It  halted  her  impetuous  footsteps,  turned  them  irreso 
lutely  aside,  and  led  her  not  to  the  gate  but  to  the 
barrier  fence.  She  could  not  explain,  even  to  herself, 
the  queer,  half-frightened  thumping  of  her  heart,  nor 
the  amazing  shyness,  nor  the  ridiculous  feeling  that  it 
would  be  improper  for  her  to  be  alone  with  him  at 
night. 

But  why,  she  argued, — why  should  it  be  improper? 
What  could  be  wrong  in  going  to  see  her  own  brother? 
What  difference  did  it  make  whether  it  was  night  or 
day?  Still  the  doubt  persisted, — a  nagging  yet  agree 
able  doubt  that  made  her  all  the  more  eager  to  defy  its 
feeble  authority.  First  she  sought  to  justify  her  in 
clination  by  reminding  herself  that  her  mother  had 
never  by  word  or  look  signified  the  slightest  opposition 
to  her  intimacy  with  Kenneth.  This  attitude  of  resig 
nation  on  her  mother's  part,  however,  was  a  constant 
thorn  in  her  side,  a  prick  to  her  conscience.  It  caused 
her  many  a  pang. 

Then  she  called  to  mind  certain  of  her  girl  friends 
who  had  brothers, — one  in  particular  who  declared  that 
she  had  slept  in  the  same  bed  with  her  brother  up  to 
the  time  she  was  fourteen  years  old.  She  felt  herself 
turn  scarlet.  That  was  really  quite  dreadful,  even 
though  the  cabin  in  which  her  friend  dwelt  was  very 
tiny  and  there  were  six  children  in  the  family.  She 
had  bitterly  envied  certain  others,  those  who  told  of 


238  VIOLA    GWYN 

the  jolly  good  times  they  had  had  with  their  brothers, 
the  fun  they  had  in  quarrelling  and  the  way  they 
teased  the  boys  when  they  first  began  "going  out"  with 
the  girls. 

What  fun  to  have  had  a  brother  when  she  was  little, 
— a  brother  to  play  with!  Kenny  was  so  unreal.  He 
was  not  like  a  brother  at  all.  He  was  no  different  from 
other  men, — she  did  not  believe  she  could  ever  get  used 
to  thinking  of  him  as  a  brother, — even  a  half-brother. 
This  very  thought  was  in  her  mind, — perhaps  it  was 
an  ever-present  thought, — as  she  stood  gazing  shyly  at 
his  window. 

She  wanted  to  tell  him  about  her  break  with  Barry. 
Somehow, — although  she  was  not  quite  conscious  of 
it, — she  longed  to  have  him  pat  her  on  the  shoulder,  or 
clasp  her  hands  in  his,  and  tell  her  she  had  done  the 
right  thing  and  he  was  glad.  The  corners  of  her  mouth 
were  drooping  a  little. 

But  the  pensive  droop  slowly  disappeared  as  she 
harkened  to  the  valiant  words  of  Zachariah.  It  was 
not  until  Kenny's  servant  lifted  his  voice  in  praise  of 
his  own  deeds  at  Phineas  Striker's  that  she  became 
acutely  aware  of  the  close  proximity  of  the  speakers. 
Gradually  she  surrendered  to  the  spirits  of  mirth  and 
mischief.  The  result  of  her  awesome  moan, — even 
though  it  narrowly  escaped  ending  in  a  shriek  of  laugh 
ter, — has  already  been  revealed.  The  manner  of 
Zachariah's  flight  sobered  her  instantly.  Too  late  she 
regretted  the  experiment. 

"Oh,  goodness !"  she  murmured,  blanching.  "The 
poor  fellow  has  hurt  himself — " 

The  slamming  of  the  door  behind  Zachariah  was  re 
assuring.  At  any  rate  he  was  alive  and  far  too 
sprightly  to  have  suffered  a  broken  leg  or  a  cracked 


REVELATIONS  239 

skull.  A  few  seconds  later  she  saw  Kenny's  shadow 
flit  hurriedly  past  the  window  as  he  dashed  toward  the 
kitchen.  For  some  time  she  stood  perfectly  still,  lis 
tening  to  the  confused  jumble  of  voices  in  the  house 
across  the  way,  debating  whether  she  should  hurry  over 
to  explain, — and  perhaps  to  assist  in  dressing  poor 
Zachariah's  cuts  and  bruises.  Suddenly  she  decided; 
and,  without  thought  of  her  garments,  she  scrambled 
hastily  over  the  fence.  Just  as  her  feet  touched  the 
ground,  the  front  door  of  Kenneth's  house  flew  open  and 
a  figure,  briefly  revealed  by  the  light  from  within, 
rushed  out  into  the  yard  and  was  swallowed  up  by  the 
darkness.  She  whirled  and  started  to  climb  back  over 
into  her  own  yard,  giggling  hysterically.  She  heard 
the  rush  of  feet  through  the  weeds  and  shrubbery. 
They  halted  abruptly,  and  then: 

"Stop  where  you  are,  damn  you!  I've  got  you  cov 
ered  and,  so  help  me  God,  I'll  put  a  bullet  through — " 

"Kenny!     Kenny!"  she  cried  out.     "It's  I— Viola!" 

There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"My  God!  You?  Viola?"  came  in  suppressed,  hor 
rified  tones  from  the  darkness.  "Drop  down, — drop  to 
the  ground !  They  may  begin  firing  at  me.  You — " 

"Firing  at  you?"  she  cried,  shakily.  "What  on 
earth  are  you  talking  about?  There's — there's  no  one 
here.  I  am  all  alone.  I  did  it.  I'm  the  ghost.  It 
was  all  in  fun.  I  didn't  dream — " 

"Do  as  I  tell  you!"  he  called  out  sharply.  "There 
is  a  pack  of  ruffians — " 

"Pack  your  granny !"  she  cried,  with  a  shrill  laugh. 
"I  tell  you  I  am  all  alone.  My  goodness,  what  on  earth 
did  Zachariah  think  was  after  him?  A  regiment  of 
soldiers  ?" 

As  he  came  quickly  toward  her  she  shrank  back, 


240  VIOLA    GWYN 

seized  by  a  strange,  inexplicable  panic.  He  loomed 
above  her  in  the  darkness  as  she  half-crouched  against 
the  fence.  For  a  few  seconds  he  stood  looking  down 
at  her,  breathing  sharply.  She  heard  something  drop 
at  his  feet,  and  then  both  his  hands  gripped  her  shoul 
ders,  drawing  her  roughly  up  to  him. 

"Oh-h!  Wh-what  are  you  doing?"  she  gasped  as 
his  arm  went  around  her.  That  arm  of  steel  drew  her 
so  close  and  held  her  so  tightly  to  his  breast  that  she 
could  feel  the  tremendous  thumping  of  his  heart.  She 
felt  herself  trembling — trembling  all  over;  the  light  in 
the  window  up  beyond  seemed  to  draw  nearer,  swelling 
to  vast  proportions  as  it  bore  down  upon  her.  She 
closed  her  eyes.  What  was  happening  to  her, — what 
was  causing  this  strange  languor,  this  queer  sensation 
as  of  falling? 

As  abruptly  as  he  had  clasped  her  to  him,  he  re 
leased  her,  springing  back  with  a  muttered  execration. 
She  tottered  dizzily,  and  involuntarily  reached  out  to 
clutch  his  arm  for  support.  He  shook  her  hand  off. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Kenny?"  she  murmured,  hazily. 

He  did  not  answer.  He  leaned  heavily  against  the 
fence,  his  head  on  his  arm.  She  did  not  move  for  many 
seconds.  Then  he  heard  her  gasp, — a  gasp  of  actual 
terror. 

"Who  are  you?"  she  whispered  tensely.  "You  are 
not  my  brother.  You  are  not  the  real  Kenneth  Gwynne ! 
Who  are  you?"  She  waited  for  the  answer  that  did 
not  come.  Then  as  she  drew  farther  away  from  him: 
"You  are  an  impostor.  You  have  deceived  us.  You 
have  come  here  representing  yourself  to  be — to  be  my 
brother, — and  you  are  not — you  are  not !  I  know  it — 
oh,  I  know  it  now.  You  are — " 

This  aroused  him.     "What  is  that  you  are  saying?" 


REVELATIONS  241 

he  cried  out,  fighting  to  pull  his  disordered  wits  to 
gether.  "Not  your  brother?  Impostor?  What  are 
you  saying,  Viola?" 

"I  want  the  truth,"  she  cried.  "Are  you  what  you 
claim  to  be?" 

"Of  course  I  am,"  he  answered,  stridently.  "I  am 
Kenneth  Gwynne.  Your  brother.  Have  you  lost  your 
senses  ?" 

"Then,  why — "  she  began  huskily.  "Why  did  you — 
Oh,  Kenny,  I  don't  know  what  I  am  saying,"  she  mur 
mured  piteously.  "I — I  don't  know  what  has  come 
over  me.  Something — something —  Oh,  I  don't  know 
what  made  me  feel — I  mean,  what  made  me  say  that 
to  you.  You  are  Kenneth  Gwynne.  You  are  my  half- 
brother.  You  are  not — " 

"There,  there!"  he  interrupted,  his  voice  shaking  a 
little.  "You  were  frightened.  I  came  so  near  to  shoot 
ing —  Yes,  that  is  it !  And  I  was  so  happy,  so  re 
lieved  that  I — I  almost  ate  you  alive, — my  -little  sister. 
God,  what  a  horrible  thing  it  would  have  been  if  I  had 
— fired  and  the  bullet  had—" 

She  interrupted  him,  speaking  rapidly,  breathlessly 
in  her  effort  to  regain  command  of  herself.  "But  you 
didn't — you  didn't,  you  see, — so  what  is  the  use  of 
worrying  about  it  now?"  She  laughed  jerkily.  "But, 
my  goodness,  it  is  a  good  lesson  for  me  I  I'll  never 
try  to  scare  anybody  else  again  as  I  did  poor 
Zachariah." 

He  stooped  and,  feeling  among  the  weeds,  recovered 
not  one  but  both  of  the  long  duelling  pistols. 

"I  was  after  bigger  game  than  you,"  he  muttered. 
"Here  are  my  pistols, — all  primed  and  ready  for  busi 
ness." 

She  stretched  out  her  hand  and  touched  one  of  the 


242  VIOLA    GWYN 

weapons.  "Ready  for  what  business?"  she  inquired. 
"What  did  you  mean  by  a  paclc  of  ruffians?"  As  he 
did  not  answer  at  once,  she  went  on  to  explain  what  had 
actually  occurred,  ending  with,  "I  suppose  Zachariah 
ran  in  and  told  you  that  old  Black  Hawk  and  his  war 
riors  were  attacking  the  town." 

"I  couldn't  get  much  out  of  him,  he  was  so  excited. 
But  I  was  mortally  afraid  they  had  stolen  a  march  on 
us,  and  you  were  already  in  their  hands.  You  see, 
Isaac  Stain  was  to  have  kept  me  informed  and  we  were 
to  have  laid  a  trap  for  them.  Oh,  Lord !"  he  exclaimed 
in  sudden  consternation.  "I  am  letting  the  cat  out  of 
the  bag." 

"Will  you  please  tell  me  what  you  are  talking  about, 
Kenneth  Gwynne?"  she  said  impatiently. 

He  came  to  a  quick  decision.  "Yes,  I  will  tell  you 
everything.  I  guess  I  was  a  fool  not  to  have  told  you 
before, — you  and  your  mother.  There  is  a  plot  afoot, 
Viola,  to  abduct  you.  Stain  got  wind  of  it,  through — 
well,  he  got  wind  of  it.  He  came  to  me  with  the  story. 
I  don't  suppose  you  will  believe  me, — and  you  will 
probably  despise  me  for  what  I  am  about  to  say, — but 
the  man  you  love  and  expect  to  marry  is  behind  the 
scheme.  I  mean  Barry  Lapelle.  He — " 

"When  did  you  hear  of  this?"  she  interrupted 
quickly.  "After  the  Revere  came  in?" 

"More  than  a  week  ago.  He  came  home  on  the 
Revere  to-day.  His  plan  is  to — " 

"I  know.  I  saw  him.  We  quarrelled.  It  is  all  over 
between  us,  Kenny.  He  was  furious.  I  thought  he 
nay  have — but  you  say  you  knew  of  this  a  week  ago? 
I  don't — I  can't  understand  it.  A  week  ago  there  was 
no  heed  of — of  carrying  me  off  against  my  will." 

"It  is  all  over  between  you?"  he  cried,  and  he  could 


REVELATIONS  243 

not  disguise  the  joy  in  his  voice.  "You  have  ended  it, 
Viola?" 

"Yes, — it  is  all  over,"  she  said  stiffly.  "I  am  not 
going  to  marry  him.  I  was  coming  over  to  tell  you. 
But — go  on.  What  is  this  cock-and-bull  story  about 
abducting  me?  Goodness,  I  am  beginning  to  feel  like 
a  girl  in  a  story-book." 

"It  is  no  laughing  matter,"  he  said,  a  little  gruffly. 
"Does  it  look  like  it  when  I  come  rushing  out  here  with 
two  loaded  pistols  and  come  near  to  shooting  you? 
Come  up  to  the  house.  We  will  talk  it  all  over,  and 
then, — "  he  hesitated  for  a  moment, — "then  I'll  go 
over  and  see  your  mother." 

He  took  her  arm  and  led  her  up  to  the  house.  As 
they  entered  the  front  door,  Zachariah's  groans  fell 
upon  their  ears.  She  looked  at  Kenny  in  alarm,  and 
for  the  first  time  realized  that  he  was  without  coat  or 
waistcoat.  His  hair  was  tousled  in  evidence  of  his 
studious  application  to  the  open  law  books  that  lay 
on  the  floor. 

"He  must  be  quite  badly  hurt,"  she  cried  miserably. 
"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry." 

Kenny  went  to  the  kitchen  door.  "Zachariah ! 
Stop  that  groaning.  You're  not  hurt.  Here!  What 
are  you  doing  with  that  rifle?" 

"Ah  was  jes'  co-comin'  out,  Marse  Kenny,  fo'  to 
he'p  yo'  kill — yas,  suh!  Ah  was — "  The  remainder 
was  lost  as  Kenneth  deliberately  closed  the  door  be 
hind  him  and  walked  over  to  the  negro,  who  was  squat 
ting  in  a  corner  with  a  rifle  in  his  hands.  Viola,  left 
alone,  crossed  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  She  was 
pale  and  anxious.  Her  wide,  alarmed  eyes  tried  to 
pierce  the  darkness  outside.  Suddenly  she  started 
back,  pressing  her  hands  to  her  cheeks. 


244.  VIOLA    GWYN 

"Oh,  my  soul!"  she  murmured.  "They  could  have 
shot  him  dead.  He  could  not  have  seen  them."  She 
felt  herself  turn  faint.  Then  a  thrill  of  exaltation 
swept  over  her  and  she  turned  quickly  toward  the 
kitchen  door,  her  eyes  glowing.  "And  he  was  not 
afraid!  He  ran  out  to  face  them  alone.  He  thought 
they  were  out  there, — he  risked  being  shot  to  save  me 
from—" 

The  door  opened  and  Kenneth  came  swiftly  into  the 
room.  He  stopped  short,  staring  at  her  radiant  face. 

"Oh,  Kenny,  you — you  really  believed  they  were  out 
there, — a  crowd  of  them, — trying  to  carry  me  off? 
Why, — why,  that  was  the  bravest  thing  a  man — " 

"Shucks !"  he  scoffed.  "My  tragedy  turns  out  to  be 
the  most  uproarious  farce.  I've  never  seen  a  funnier 
one  in  the  theatre.  But  there  is  a  serious  side  to  it, 
Viola.  Sit  down  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  I'll  tell  you. 
Zachariah  is  all  right.  Barked  his  shins  a  little,  that's 
all." 

At  the  conclusion  of  his  short,  unembellished  recital, 
he  said: 

"There  is  nothing  for  you  to  be  worried  about.  They 
cannot  carry  out  the  plot.  We  are  all  forewarned 
now.  I  should  have  told  you  all  this  before,  but  I  Was 
afraid  you  would  think  I  was  trying  to  blacken  La- 
pelle.  I  wanted  to  catch  him  red-handed,  as  the  saying 
is.  Isaac  Stain  is  coming  in  to  sleep  here  to-morrow 
night,  and  Zachariah,  for  all  his  fear  of  ghosts  and 
lightning,  is  not  afraid  of  men.  We  will  be  ready  for 
them  if  they  come, — so  don't  you  worry." 

There  was  a  puzzled  frown  in  her  eyes.  "I  don't 
see  why  he  should  have  planned  this  a  week  ago,  Kenny. 
I  Had  told  him  I  would  marry  him.  There  must  be 
something  back  of  all  this." 


REVELATIONS  245 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  a  friend  of  his  who 
is  going  to  be  married  soon?  He  spoke  to  me  about  it 
the  other  day,  and  asked  if  a  parent  could  legally  de 
prive  a  daughter  of  a  share  in  her  deceased  father's — " 

"Why, — that's  me,  Kenny,"  she  cried  excitedly.  "I 
told  him  that  mother  would  disinherit  me  entirely  if  I 
married  him  without  her  consent." 

A  light  broke  over  him.  "By  jingo!"  he  cried.  "I 
am  beginning  to  see.  Why,  it's  as  plain  as  day  to 
me  now.  The  beastly  scoundrel!" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Could  your  mother  very  well  carry  out  her  threat 
if  he  made  off  with  you  by  force  and  compelled  you  to 
marry  him,  whether  or  no?" 

She  stiffened.  "I  would  never, — never  consent, 
Kenny.  I  would  die  first." 

"I  suppose  you  imagine  there  could  be  no  worse 
fate  than  that?"  he  said,  pity  in  his  eyes. 

She  looked  puzzled  for  a  moment  and  then  grasped 
his  meaning.  Her  face  blanched. 

"I  said  I  would  die  first,"  she  repeated  in  a  low, 
steady  voice. 

"Well,"  he  cried,  starting  up  briskly  from  his  chair, 
"I  guess  we'd  better  hurry  if  we  want  to  catch  your 
mother  before  she  goes  to  bed.  And  that  reminds  me, 
Viola, — I  would  like  to  speak  with  her  alone.  You 
see,"  he  went  on  lamely,  "you  see,  we're  not  friends 
and  I  don't  know  how  she  will  receive  me." 

She  nodded  her  head  without  speaking  and  together 
they  left  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


RACHEL  was  standing  on  her  porch  as  they 
came  up  the  walk.  The  light  through  the  open 
door  at  her  back  revealed  her  tall,  motionless 
figure  but  not  her  face  which  was  in  shadow. 

"Kenneth  wants  to  talk  to  you  about  something  very 
important,"  said  Viola  unevenly,  as  they  drew  near. 

The  woman  on  the  porch  did  not  speak  until  they 
paused  at  the  bottom  of  the  steps. 

"Have  you  been  over  at  his  house,  Viola?"  she  asked 
levelly. 

"Yes,  mother." 

After  a  moment's  hesitation:  "Come  in,  Kenneth." 
She  stood  aside  to  let  Viola  pass.  Kenneth,  who  had 
hastily  donned  his  coat,  followed  the  two  women  into 
the  house.  There  was  a  light  in  the  parlor.  "Will 
,you  sit  down,  or  do  you  prefer  to  remain  standing  in 
my  house,  Kenneth  Gwynne?" 

He  bowed  stiffly,  indicating  a  chair  with  a  gesture. 
"Will  you  be  seated  first,  madam?" 

His  sophomoric  dignity  drew  a  faint,  ironic  smile 
to  her  lips.  "Thank  you,"  she  said  calmly,  and  seated 
herself  on  the  little  horsehair  sofa.  If  there  was  any 
uneasiness  in  the  look  she  sent  from  one  to  the  other 
of  the  young  people  it  was  not  noticeable.  "Hattie 
came  in  a  little  while  ago,"  she  said,  "scared  out  of  her 

wits.     I  suspected  that  you  were  up  to  one  of  your 

246 


RACHEL    DELIVERS    MESSAGE 

pranks,  Viola.  I  do  wish  you  would  stop  frightening 
the  girl." 

"Kenneth  will  tell  you  what  happened,"  said  the  girl, 
hurriedly.  "He  wants  to  see  you  alone.  I  am  going 
upstairs." 

She  left  the  room,  closing  the  door  behind  her. 
Neither  spoke  until  they  heard  her  footsteps  on  the 
floor  overhead. 

"Well,  what  have  you  been  telling  her?"  asked 
Rachel,  leaning  forward,  her  eyes  narrowing. 

He  drew  a  chair  up  close  to  the  sofa  and  sat  down. 
"Nothing  that  she  should  not  know,"  he  answered.  "I 
will  first  tell  you  what  happened  a  little  while  ago,  and 
then — the  rest  of  it.  There  is  evil  afoot.  I  have 
been  wrong,  I  realize,  in  not  warning  you  and  Viola." 

She  listened  intently  to  the  end;  not  once  did  she 
interrupt  him,  but  as  he  proceeded  to  unfold  the 
meagre  details  of  the  plot  as  presented  to  him  by  Isaac 
Stain,  her  brow  darkened  and  her  fingers  began  to  work 
nervously,  restlessly  in  her  lap.  His  account  of  the 
frightening  of  Zachariah  and  its  immediate  results  took 
up  but  little  time.  He  was  careful  to  avoid  any  men 
tion  of  that  stirring  scene  at  the  fence,  its  effect  upon 
the  startled  girl,  or  how  near  he  was  to  betraying  the 
great  secret. 

Rachel  Gwyn's  eyes  never  left  his  face  during  the 
whole  of  the  unbroken  recital.  Toward  the  end  he 
had  the  disconcerting  impression  that  she  was  reading 
his  turbulent  thoughts,  that  she  was  successfully  search 
ing  his  soul. 

"That's  the  story  as  it  came  to  me,"  he  concluded. 
"I  deserve  your  condemnation  for  not  preparing  Viola 
against  a  trick  that  might  have  resulted  disastrously 
while  we  were  marking  time." 


248  VIOLA    GWYN 

"Why  did  Isaac  Stain  go  to  you  instead  of  coming 
to  me?"  was  her  first  question. 

"Because  he  believes  I  am  her  brother,  and  this 
happens  to  be  a  man's  job,'*  he  said,  lowering  his  voice. 
"It  is  only  fair,  however,  to  state  that  he  wanted  to 
come  to  you  and  I,  in  my  folly,  advised  him  not  to 
do  so." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then:  "And  why  did 
you  think  it  not  advisable  to  tell  me?" 

"I  will  be  frank  with  you,"  he  replied,  colouring 
under  her  steady  gaze.  "I  wanted  her  to  find  out  for 
herself  just  what  kind  of  man  Lapelle  really  is.  I  was 
prepared  to  let  the  plot  go  almost  to  the  point  of  con 
summation.  I — I  wanted  to  be  the  one  to  save  her." 
He  lowered  his  eyes,  afraid  that  she  would  discover 
the  truth  in  them. 

Again  she  hesitated,  apparently  weighing  her  words. 

"You  are  in  love  with  her,  Kenneth." 

He  looked  up,  startled,  almost  aghast.  Involun 
tarily  he  started  to  rise  to  his  feet,  his  eyes  still  fixed 
on  hers,  vehement  denial  on  his  parted  lips,  only  to 
sink  back  into  the  chair  again,  convicted.  There  was 
no  use  attempting  to  deceive  this  cold,  clear-headed 
woman.  She  knew.  No  lie,  no  evasion  could  meet  that 
direct  statement.  For  a  long  time  they  looked  straight 
into  each  other's  eyes,  and  at  length  his  fell  in  mute 
confession. 

"God  help  me, — I  am,"  he  groaned. 

"Oh,  the  pity  of  it!"  she  cried  out.  He  looked  up 
and  saw  that  she  was  trembling,  her  ashen  face  work 
ing  as  in  pain. 

"No !    The  curse  of  it,  Rachel  Carter !" 

She  appeared  not  to  have  heard  his  words.     "  'God 


RACHEL    DELIVERS    MESSAGE    249 

works  in  a  mysterious  way/ "  she  muttered,  almost 
inaudibly.  "The  call  of  the  blood  is  unfailing.  The 
brain  may  be  deceived,  the  heart  never."  With  an 
effort,  she  regained  control  of  herself.  '"She  has 
broken  off  with  Barry  Lapelle.  Do  you  know  the 
reason  why?  Because,  all  unbeknownst  to  her,  she 
has  fallen  in  love  with  you.  Yes !  It  is  true.  I  know. 
I  have  seen  it  coming." 

She  arose  and  crossed  to  the  door,  which  she  cau 
tiously  opened.  For  a  moment  she  remained  there  lis 
tening,  then  closing  it  gently,  she  came  over  and  stood 
before  him. 

"Love  is  a  wonderful  thing,  Kenneth,"  she  said 
slowly.  "It  is  the  most  powerful  force  in  all  the  world. 
It  overcomes  reason,  it  crushes  the  conscience,  it  makes 
strong  men  weak  and  weak  men  strong.  For  love  a 
woman  will  give  her  honour,  for  love  a  man  will  barter 
his  chance  for  eternal  salvation.  It  overlooks  faults, 
it  condones  crime,  it  rises  above  every  obstacle  that 
the  human  mind  can  put  before  it.  It  knows  no  fear, 
it  has  no  religion,  it  serves  no  God.  You  love  my  girl, 
Kenneth.  She  is  the  daughter  of  the  woman  you 
despise,  the  daughter  of  one  you  call  evil.  Is  your 
love  for  her  great  enough, — or  will  it  ever  be  great 
enough, — to  overcome  these  obstacles?  In  plain  words, 
would  you  take  her  unto  yourself  as  your  wife,  to  love 
and  cherish  and  honour, — mind  you,  honour, — to  the 
end  of  your  days  on  earth?" 

He  stood  up,  facing  her,  his  face  white. 

"She  ha*  done  nothing  dishonourable,"  he  said 
levelly. 

"  'The  sins  of  the  mother,'  "  she  paraphrased,  with 
out  taking  her  eyes  from  his. 


250  VIOLA    GWYN 

"Was  her  mother  any  worse  than  my  father?  Has 
the  sin  been  visited  upon  one  of  us  and  not  upon  the 
other?" 

"Then,  you  would  be  willing  to  take  Viola  as  your 
wife?" 

He  seemed  to  wrench  his  gaze  away.  "Oh,  what  is 
the  use  of  talking  about  the  impossible?"  he  exclaimed. 
"I  have  confessed  that  I  love  her, — yes,  in  spite  of 
everything, — and  you — " 

"You  have  not  answered  my  question." 

"No,  I  have  not,"  he  said  deliberately, — "and 
I  do  not  intend  to  answer  it.  You  know  as  well  as  I 
that  I  cannot  ask  her  to  marry  me,  so  why  speak  of 
it?  Good  God,  could  I  ask  my  own  sister  to  be  my 
wife?" 

"She  is  not  your  sister.  She  has  not  one  drop  of 
Gwynne  blood  in  her  veins." 

He  gave  a  short,  bitter  laugh.  "But  who  is  going 
to  tell  her  that,  may  I  ask,  Rachel  Carter?" 

She  turned  away,  took  two  or  three  turns  up  and 
down  the  room,  her  head  bent,  a  heavy  frown  between 
her  eyes,  and  then  sank  wearily  into  a  chair. 

"I  will  put  it  this  way,  Kenneth,"  she  said.  "Would 
you  ask  her  to  be  your  wife  if  the  time  should  ever 
come  when  she  knows  the  truth?" 

He  hesitated  a  long  time.  "Will  you  be  kind  enough 
to  tell  me  what  your  object  is  in  asking  me  these 
questions  ?" 

"I  want  to  know  whether  you  are  truly  in  love 
with  her,"  she  replied  steadily. 

"And  if  I  say  that  I  could  not  ask  her  to  marry 
me,  would  that  prove  anything  to  you?" 

"Yes.  It  would  prove  two  things.  It  would  prove 
that  you  do  not  love  her  with  all  your  heart  and  soul, 


RAC-ITEL  D-ELIVERS  MESSAGE  251 

and  it  would  prove  that  you  are  the  same  kind  of  man 
that  your  father  was  before  you." 

He  started.  It  was  the  second  reason  that  caused 
him  to  look  at  her  curiously.  "What  do  you  mean?" 

"When  you  have  answered  my  question,  I  will  answer 
yours,  Kenneth." 

"Well,"  he  began,  setting  his  jaw,  "I  do  love  her 
enough  to  ask  her  to  be  my  wife.  But  I  would  ask 
her  as  Owen  Carter's  daughter.  And,"  he  added,  half 
closing  his  eyes  as  with  pain,  "she  would  refuse  to 
have  me.  She  could  not  look  at  the  matter  as  I  do. 
Her  love, — if  she  should  ever  come  to  have  such  a 
feeling  for  me, — her  love  would  revolt  against —  Oh, 
you  know  what  I  mean!  Do  you  suppose  it  would 
survive  the  shock  of  realization?  No !  She  has  a  clean 
heart.  She  would  never  marry  the  son  of  the  man 
who — who — "  He  found  himself  unable  to  finish  the 
sentence.  A  strange,  sudden  reluctance  to  hurt  his 
enemy*  checked  the  words  even  as  they  were  being 
framed  on  his  lips, — reluctance  due  not  to  compassion 
nor  te  consideration  but  to  a  certain  innate  respect 
for  an  adversary  whose  back  is  to  the  wall  and  yet 
faces  unequal  odds  without  a  sign  of  shrinking. 

"Shall  I  say  it  for  you?"  she  asked  in  a  cold, 
level  voice.  But  she  had  winced,  despite  her  iron 
control. 

"It  is  not  necessary,"  said  he,  embarrassed. 

"In  any  case,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh,  "you  have 
answered  my  question.  If  you  could  do  this  for  my 
girl  I  am  sure  of  your  love  for  her.  There  could  be 
no  greater  test.  I  shall  take  a  little  more  time  before 
answering  your  question.  There  are  one  or  two  more 
things  I  must  say  to  you  before  I  come  to  that, — and 
then,  if  you  like,  we  will  take  up  this  story  of  Isaac 


252  VIOLA    GWYN 

Stain's.     Kenneth,  the  time  may  come, — I  feel  that  it 
is  sure  to  come,  when — " 

She  stopped.  A  sound  from  above  caught  her  ear, 
— a  regular,  rhythmic  thumping  on  the  floor.  After 
a  few  seconds  she  remarked: 

"It  is  all  right.  That  is  a  rocking-chair.  She  is 
getting  impatient."  Nevertheless  she  lowered  her 
voice  and  leaned  forward  in  her  chair.  "The  time  is 
sure  to  come  when  Viola  will  learn  the  truth  about  her 
self  and  me, — and  you,  as  well.  I  feel  it  in  my  bones. 
It  may  not  come  till  after  I  am  dead.  But  no  matter 
when  it  comes,  I  want  to  feel  sure  now, — to-night, 
Kenneth, — that  you  will  never  undertake  to  deprive 
her  of  the  lands  and  money  I  shall  leave  to  her." 

He  stared  at  her  in  astonishment.  "What  is  this 
you  are  saying?"  She  slowly  repeated  the  words. 
"Why,  how  could  I  dispossess  her?  It  is  yours  to  be 
queath  as  you  see  fit,  madam.  Do  you  think  I  am  a 
mercenary  scoundrel, — that  I  would  try  to  take  it 
away  from  her?  I  know  she  is  not  my  father's  daugh 
ter,  but — why,  good  heaven,  I  would  never  dream  of 
fighting  for  what  you — " 

"Your  love  for  her, — though  unrequited, — aye,  even 
though  she  became  embittered  toward  you  because  of 
what  happened  years  ago, — you  love  her  enough  to 
stand  aside  and  allow  her  to  hold  what  I  shall  leave 
to  her?" 

"You  are  talking  in  riddles.  What  on  earth  are 
you  driving  at?" 

"You  will  not  fight  her  right,  her  claim  to  my 
estate?"  she  insisted,  leaning  still  closer. 

"Why,  of  course  not!"  he  exclaimed,  angrily. 

"Even  though  the  law  might  say  she  is  not  entitled 
to  it?" 


"The  law  can  take  no  action  unless  I  invoke  its  aid," 
said  he.  "And  that  is  something  I  shall  never  do,"  he 
added,  with  finality. 

"I  wish  I  could  be  sure  of  that,"  she  murmured, 
wistfully. 

He  came  to  his  feet.  "You  may  be  sure  of  it,"  he 
said,  with  dignity.  "Possess  your  soul  in  peace,  if 
that  is  all  that  is  troubling  it." 

"Sit  down,"  she  said,  a  strange  huskiness  in  her 
voice.  He  obeyed  her.  "Your  father  left  a  certain 
part  of  his  fortune  to  me.  There  was  no  provision 
made  for  Viola.  You  understand  that,  don't  you?" 

"Yes.  I  know  all  about  that,"  said  he,  plainly 
bewildered.  "On  the  other  hand,  he  did  not  impose 
any  restrictions  upon  you.  You  are  at  liberty  to  dis 
pose  of  your  share  by  will,  as  you  see  fit,  madam.  I 
am  not  likely  to  deny  my  step-sister  what  is  rightfully 
hers.  And  that  reminds  me.  She  is  not  my  blood 
relation,  it's  true.  But  she  is  my  step-sister.  That 
settles  another  point.  I  could  not  ask  my  step-sister 
to  be  my  wife.  The  law  would — " 

"Now  we  have  come  to  the  point  where  I  shall  answer 
the  question  you  asked  a  while  ago,"  she  interrupted, 
straightening  up  in  her  chair  and  regarding  him  with 
a  fixed,  steady  light  in  her  eyes  that  somehow  seemed 
to  forewarn  him  of  what  was  about  to  be  revealed.  "I 
said  it  would  prove  two  things  to  me.  One  of  them 
was  that  you  are  the  same  kind  of  man  that  your 
father  was  before  you.  I  mean  if  you  had  said  you 
could  not  ask  Viola  to  be  your  wife."  She  paused, 
and  then  went  on  slowly,  deliberately.  "I  lived  with 
your  father  for  nearly  twenty  years.  In  all  that 
time  he  never  asked  me  to  be  his  wife." 

At  first  he  stared  blankly  at  her,  uncomprehending. 


254  VIOLA    GWY'N 

Then  a  slow,fdark  flush  spread  over  his  face.  He  half- 
started  up  from  his  chair. 

"You — you  mean — "  he  stammered. 

"He  never  asked  me  to  be  his  wife,"  she  repeated 
without  emotion. 

He  sank  back,  incredulous,  dumbfounded.  "My 
God !  Am  I  to  understand  that  you — that  you  were 
never  married  to  my  father?" 

"Yes.  I  waited  twenty  years  for  him  to  ask  me 
to  marry  him, — but  he  never  did." 

He  was  still  somewhat  stupefied.  The  disclosure 
was  so  unexpected,  so  utterly  at  odds  with  all  his 
understanding  that  he  could  not  wholly  grasp  its  sig 
nificance.  Somewhat  footlessly  he  burst  out: 

"But  surely  you  must  have  demanded — I  mean,  did 
you  never  ask  him  to — to  marry  you?" 

Her  eyebrows  went  up  slightly. 

"How  could  I?"  she  inquired,  as  if  surprised  by 
the  question.  "I  had  not  sunk  so  low  in  my  own 
estimation  as  that,  Kenneth  Gwynne.  My  bed  was 
made  the  day  I  went  away  with  him.  Some  day  you 
may  realize  that  even  such  as  I  may  possess  the  thing 
called  pride.  No!  I  would  have  died  rather  than  ask 
him  to  marry  me.  I  chose  my  course  with  my  eyes 
open.  It  was  not  for  me  to  demand  more  than  I  gave. 
He  was  not  a  free  man  when  I  went  to  him.  He  made 
no  promises,  nor  did  I  exact  any." 

She  spoke  in  the  most  matter-of-fact  way.  He  re 
garded  her  in  sheer  wonder. 

"But  he  should  have  made  you  his  wife,"  he  ex 
claimed,  his  sense  of  fairness  rising  above  the  bitter 
antipathy  he  felt  toward  her. 

"That  was  for  him  to  decide,"  said  she,  calmly.  "I 
respected  his  feelings  in  the  matter, — and  still  do.  He 


RACHEL    DELIVERS    MESSAGE    255 

had  no  right  to  marry  me  when  we  went  away  together. 
He  did  not  take  me  as  a  wife,  Kenneth  Gwynne.  He 
took  me  as  a  woman.  He  had  a  wife.  Up  to  the  day 
he  died  he  looked  upon  her  as  his  wife.  I  was  his 
woman.  I  could  never  take  her  place.  Not  even  after 
she  had  been  in  her  grave  for  twenty  years.  He  never 
forgot  her.  I  see  the  scorn  in  your  eyes.  He  does 
not  quite  deserve  it,  Kenneth.  After  all  is  said  and 
done,  he  was  fair  to  me.  Not  one  man  in  a  thousand 
would  have  done  his  part  so  well  as  he. 

"I  don't  suppose  you  know  what  men  do  with  their 
mistresses  when  they  begin  to  feel  that  they  are 
through  with  them  and  there  is  no  legal  bond  to  hold 
them.  They  desert  them.  They  cast  them  off.  And 
then  they  turn  to  some  honest  woman  and  marry  her. 
That  is  the  way  with  men.  But  he  was  not  like  that. 
I  can  tell  what  you  are  about  to  say.  It  is  on  your 
lips  to  say  that  he  deserted  an  honest  woman.  Well, 
so  he  did.  And  therein  lies  the  secret  of  his  constancy 
to  me, — even  after  he  had  ceased  to  love  me  and  the 
passion  that  was  in  him  died.  He  would  never  desert 
another  woman  who  trusted  him.  He  paid  too  dearly 
in  his  conscience  for  the  first  offence  to  be  guilty  of  a 
second. 

"You  see  I  am  laying  bare  my  innermost  soul  to  you. 
It  hurts  me  to  say  that  through  all  these  years  he 
loved  and  honoured  and  revered  his  wife, — and  the 
memory  of  her.  He  was  never  unkind  to  me, — he  never 
spoke  of  her.  But  I  knew,  and  he  knew  that  I  knew. 
He  loved  you,  his  little  boy.  I,  too,  loved  you  once, 
Kenneth.  When  you  were  a  little  shaver  I  adored  you. 
But  I  came  to  hate  you  as  the  years  went  by.  It  is 
needless  to  tell  you  the  reason  why.  When  it  came 
time  for  him  to  die  he  left  you  half  of  his  fortune. 


266  VIOLA    GWYN 

The  other  half, — and  a  little  over, — he  gave  to  me." 
Her  voice  faltered  a  little  as  she  added:  "For  good 
and  faithful  service,  I  suppose." 

During  this  long  speech  Kenneth  had  succeeded  in 
collecting  his  thoughts.  He  had  been  shocked  by  her 
confession,  and  now  he  was  mentally  examining  the 
possibilities  that  might  arise  from  the  aspect  it  bared. 

First  of  all,  Viola  was  not  even  his  step-sister.  He 
experienced  a  thrill  of  joy  over  that, — notwithstand 
ing  the  ugly  truth  that  gave  her  the  new  standing; 
to  his  simple,  straightforward  mind,  Viola's  mother 
was  nothing  more  than  a  prostitute.  (In  his  thoughts 
he  employed  another  word,  for  he  lived  in  a  day  when 
prostitutes  were  called  by  another  name.)  Still, 
Viola  was  not  to  blame  for  that.  That  could  never 
be  held  against  her. 

"Why  have  you  told  me  all  this?"  he  asked  bluntly. 
"I  had  no  means  of  learning  that  you  were  never 
married  to  my  father.  There  was  never  a  question 
about  it  in  my  mind,  nor  in  anybody  else's,  so  far  as  I 
know.  You  have  put  a  very  dangerous  weapon  in  my 
hand  in  case  I  should  choose  to  use  it  against  you." 

She  was  silent  for  a  long  time,  struggling  with  her 
self.  He  could  almost  feel  the  battle  that  was  going 
on  within  her.  Somehow  it  appalled  him. 

The  wind  outside  was  rising.  It  moaned  softly, 
plaintively  through  the  trees.  A  shutter  creaked  some 
where  at  the  back  of  the  house  and  at  intervals  banged 
against  the  casement.  The  frogs  down  in  the  hollow 
had  ceased  their  clamour  and  no  doubt  took  to  them 
selves  credit  for  the  storm  that  was  on  the  way  in 
answer  to  their  exhortations.  The  even,  steady  thump 
of  the  rocking-chair  in  the  room  overhead  stopped 
suddenly,  and  Viola's  quick  tread  was  heard  crossing 


the  floor.    She  closed  a  window.    Then,  after  a  moment, 
the  sound  of  the  rocking-chair  again. 

Rachel  left  her  chair  and  walked  over  to  the  window 
to  peer  out  into  the  night. 

"It  is  coming  from  the  west,"  she  said,  as  if  to  test 
the  steadiness  of  her  voice. 

A  far-off  flicker  of  lightning  cast  a  faint,  phosphor 
escent  glow  into  the  dimly  lighted  room,  quivering 
for  a  second  or  two  on  the  face  of  the  woman  at  the 
window,  then  dying  away  with  what  seemed  to  be  a 
weird  suggestion  of  reluctance. 

She  stood  before  him,  looking  down.  "I  have  at 
last  obeyed  a  command  imposed  by  Robert  Gwynne 
when  he  was  on  his  death-bed.  Almost  his  last  words 
to  me  were  in  the  nature  of  a  threat.  He  told  me 
that  if  I  failed  to  carry  out  his  request, — he  did  not 
call  it  a  command, — he  would  haunt  me  to  my  dying 
day.  You  may  laugh  at  me  if  you  will,  but  he  has  been 
haunting  me,  Kenneth  Gwynne.  If  I  ever  cherished 
the  notion  that  I  could  ignore  his  command  and  go 
on  living  in  the  security  of  my  own  secret,  I  must 
have  known  from  the  beginning  that  it  would  be  im 
possible.  Day  and  night,  ever  since  you  came,  some 
force  that  was  not  my  own  has  been  driving  at  my  re 
sistance.  You  will  call  it  compunction,  or  conscience 
or  an  honest  sense  of  duty.  I  do  not  call  it  by  any  of 
those  names.  Your  father  commanded  me  to  tell  you 
with  my  own  lips, — not  in  writing  or  through  the 
mouth  of  an  agent, — he  commanded  me  to  say  to  you 
that  your  mother  was  the  only  wife  he  ever  had.  I 
have  done  this  to-night.  I  have  humbled  myself, — but 
it  was  after  a  long,  cruel  fight.** 

She  sat  down,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  her  very 
soul  went  out  in  the  deep,  long  sigh  that  caused  her 


258  VIOLA    GWYN 

bosom  to  flatten  and  her  shoulders  to  droop  forward. 

"He  was  either  an  ingrate  or  a  coward,"  said  he 
harshly,  after  a  short  silence. 

"It  is  not  for  you  to  pass  judgment  on  my  master," 
said  she,  simply.  "May  I  beg  you  to  refrain  from 
putting  your  own  judgment  of  him  into  words?  Will 
you  not  spare  me  that?" 

He  stared  at  her  in  astonishment.  He  saw  that  she 
was  in  earnest,  desperately  in  earnest.  Choking  back 
the  words  that  had  rushed  to  his  lips,  he  got  up  from 
his  chair  and  bent  his  head  gravely. 

"Yes,  if  it  is  any  comfort  to  you,  Rachel  Carter," 
he  said,  acute  pity  in  his  eyes.  "I  cannot  resist  say 
ing,  however,  that  you  have  not  spared  yourself.  It 
cost  you  a  great  deal  to  pay  one  of  the  debts  he  left 
for  you  to  settle.  I  shall  not  forget  it." 

She  arose  and  all  the  humility  fell  away  from  her. 
Once  more  she  was  the  strong,  indomitable, — even 
formidable, — figure  he  had  come  to  know  so  well.  Her 
bosom  swelled,  her  shoulders  straightened,  and  into 
her  deepset,  sombre  eyes  came  the  unflinching  light 
of  determination. 

"Then  we  are  done  with  that,"  she  said  quietly.  "I 
have  asked  no  favours  save  this  last  one  for  myself, — 
but  it  is  a  greater  one  than  you  may  think.  You 
know  everything  now,  Kenneth.  You  have  called  me 
Rachel  Carter.  Was  it  divination  or  was  it  stubborn 
memory?  I  wonder.  So  far  as  I  know,  you  are  the 
only  person  left  in  the  world  who  knows  that  I  was 
not  his  wife,  the  only  one  who  knows  that  I  am  still 
Rachel  Carter.  No  matter  what  this  man  Braley 
may  know,  or  what  he  may  tell,  he —  But  we  are 
wasting  time.  Viola  must  be  wondering.  Now  as  to 


RACHEL   DELIVERS    MESSAGE    259 

this  plan  of  Barry  Lapelle's.  I  think  I  can  safely 
assure  you  that  nothing  will  come  of  it." 

"Then,  you  knew  about  it  before  I  told  you?"  he 
exclaimed. 

"No.  You  brought  me  word  of  Jasper  Suggs  this 
morning.  You  said  he  was  staying  at  Martin  Hawk's 
cabin.  You  may  have  forgotten  what  I  said  to  you 
at  the  time.  Now  you  bring  me  word  that  Barry 
Lapelle's  plot  was  hatched  at  Martin  Hawk's.  Well, 
this  afternoon  I  went  to  the  Court  House  and  swore 
out  a  warrant  charging  Martin  Hawk  with  stealing 
some  of  my  yearling  calves  and  sheep.  That  warrant 
is  now  in  the  hands  of  the  sheriff.  It  will  be  served 
before  another  day  is  gone." 

"That's  pretty  sharp  work,"  he  said,  but  still  a  little 
puzzled.  "Naturally  it  will  upset  Barry's  plans,  but 
Suggs  is  still  to  be  accounted  for.  You  mentioned 
something  about  charging  him  with  a  murder  back 
in—" 

"I  guess  that  can  wait  till  another  day,"  said  she, 
with  a  smile  that  he  did  not  quite  understand.  "It 
would  be  rather  stupid  of  me,  don't  you  think,  to  have 
him  arrested  ?" 

"You  said  he  was  not  the  kind  of  a  man  to  be 
taken  alive,"  he  remarked,  knitting  his  brows. 

"I  think  I  said  something  of  the  kind.  The  name 
of  Simon  Braley  is  known  from  one  end  of  this  State 
to  the  other.  It  is  a  name  to  conjure  fear  with.  Every 
Indian  uprising  in  the  past  ten  years  has  had  Braley's 
name  connected  with  it.  It  was  he  who  led  the  band 
of  Chippewas  twelve  years  ago  when  they  massacred 
some  fifteen  or  eighteen  women  and  children  in  a 
settlement  on  White  River  while  their  men  were  off  in 


260  VIOLA    GWYN 

the  fields  at  work.  Isn't  it  rather  significant  that 
the  renegade  Simon  Braley  should  turn  up  in  these 
parts  at  a  time  when  Black  Hawk  is —  But  that  is 
neither  here  nor  there.  My  warrant  calls  for  the 
arrest  of  Martin  Hawk.  For  more  than  two  years 
Hawk  has  been  suspected  of  stealing  livestock  down 
on  the  Wea,  but  no  one  has  ever  been  willing  to  make 
a  specific  charge  against  him.  He  is  very  cunning  and 
he  has  always  covered  his  tracks." 

"Do  you  think  he  will  resist  the  sheriff?  I  mean, 
is  there  likely  to  be  fighting?" 

"It  all  depends  on  whether  Martin  is  caught  nap 
ping,"  she  replied  in  a  most  casual  manner.  "By  the 
way,  has  Isaac  Stain  told  jou  much  about  himself?" 

Kenneth  could  not  repress  a  smile.  "He  has  men 
tioned  one  or  two  affairs  of  the  heart." 

"His  sister  was  one  of  the  women  massacred  by 
the  Chippewas  down  on  White  River  that  time.  She 
was  the  young  wife  of  a  settler.  Isaac  will  be  over 
joyed  when  he  finds  out  that  Jasper  Suggs  and  Simon 
Braley  are  one  and  the  same  person." 

He  was  speechless  for  a  moment,  comprehension  com 
ing  slowly  to  him.  "By  all  that's  holy !"  he  exclaimed, 
something  like  awe  in  his  voice.  "I  am  beginning  to 
understand.  Stain  will  be  one  of  the  sheriff's  party?" 

"We  will  stoiJ  at  his  cabin  on  the  way  to  Hawk's," 
she  replied.  "If  he  chooses  to  join  us  after  I  have 
told  him  who  I  think  this  man  Suggs  really  is,  no  one 
will  object." 

"You  say  Ve.'  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you 
are  going  along  with  the  posse?  Good  God,  woman, 
there  will  be  shooting!  You  must  not  think  of — ' 

She  checked  him  with  an  imperious  gesture.  "I  can 
not  send  these  men  to  face  a  peril  that  I  am  not  willing 


RACHEL   DELIVERS    MESSAGE    261 

to  face  myself.  That  would  be  dastardly.  I  will  take 
my  chances  with  the  rest  of  them.  You  seem  to  forget 
that  I  spent  a  good  many  years  of  my  life  in  the 
wilderness.  This  will  not  be  my  first  experience  with 
renegades  and  outlaws.  When  I  first  came  to  this 
State,  the  women  had  to  know  how  to  shoot.  Not  only 
to  shoot  birds  and  beasts,  but  men  as  well.  Those 
were  hard  days.  I  was  not  like  the  men  who  cut 
notches  in  their  rifle  stocks  for  every  Indian  they  slew, 
and  yet  there  is  a  gun  in  my  room  upstairs  that  could 
have  two  notches  on  it  if  I  had  cared  to  put  them 
there." 

"What  time  do  you  start  ?"  he  said,  the  fire  of  excite 
ment  in  his  eyes.  "I  insist  on  being  one  of  the — " 

"You  will  not  be  needed,"  she  said  succinctly.  "I 
think  you  had  better  go  now.  The  storm  will  soon  be 
upon  us.  Thank  you  for  coming  here  to-night,  Ken 
neth." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

SHOWS    HIS    TEETH 


KENNETH  went  to  bed  that  night  firmly  re 
solved  to  accompany  the  sheriff  when  he  set 
out  to  arrest  Martin  Hawk.  Zachariah  had 
instructions  to  call  him  at  daybreak  and  to  have 
breakfast  ready  on  the  dot. 

No  doubt  the  posse  would  start  about  sunrise,  —  in 
any  case,  he  would  be  up  and  prepared  to  take  to  his 
saddle  the  instant  he  saw  his  neighbour  leaving  her 
house. 

The  thunderstorm  came  rollicking  down  the  valley, 
crashed  and  rolled  and  roared  for  half  an  hour  or  so, 
and  then  stole  mumbling  away  in  the  night,  leaving 
in  its  wake  a  sighing  wind  and  the  drip  of  forsaken 
raindrops. 

He  was  astir  at  cockcrow.  The  first  faint  glow  of 
red  in  the  greying  east  found  him  at  breakfast,  with 
Zachariah  sleepily  serving  him  with  hot  corn-cakes, 
lean  side-meat  and  coffee. 

"Take  plenty  dis  yere  hot  coffee,  Marse  Kenneth," 
urged  Zachariah,  at  the  end  of  a  prodigious  yawn. 
"Yo*  all  gwine  need  sumpin  to  keep  yo'  'wake,  suh,  so's 
yo'  won't  fall  out'n  de  saddle.  Dis  yere  —  " 

"Speaking  of  saddles,  have  you  fed  Brandy  Boy?" 

"Yas,  suh.  Ah  dunno  as  Ah  evah  see  a  hoss  mo* 
took  by  'stonishment  dan  he  wuz  when  Ah  step  brisk- 

like  into  his  stall  an'  sez  'Doggone  yo',  Brandy  Boy, 

262 


LAPELLE    SHOWS    HIS    TEETH    263 

don't  yo'  know  de  sun's  gwine  to  be  up  in  less'n  two 
hours?  Wha'  fo'  is  yo'  keepin'  me  an*  Marse  Kenneth 
waitin'  lak  dis?  Git  ep  dar,  yo'  lazy,  good-fer- 
nuffin,— '  " 

"And  what  did  Brandy  Boy  say  in  response  to  that?" 
broke  in  his  master,  airily. 

"How  dat,  suh?" 

"Did  he  reply  in  courteous  terms  or  was  he  testy 
and  out  of  sorts?  Now,  just  what  did  he  say?" 

Zachariah  stared  at  the  speaker  in  some  uneasiness. 
"Ah  reckon  yo'  all  better  go  on  back  to  bed,  suh,  an' 
lemme  call  yo'  when  yo'  is  wide  awake.  Ain'  no  sense 
in  yo'  startin'  off  on  dis  yere  hossback  ride  when  yo' 
is  still  enjoyin'  setch  a  good  night's  sleep.  No,  suh!" 

"I  will  take  another  cup  of  your  excellent  coffee, 
Zachariah.  That  will  make  three,  won't  it?" 

Zachariah  shuffled  over  to  the  stove,  muttering  as 
he  lifted  the  coffee  pot:  "Fust  Ah  is  seein'  things  in 
de  evenin'  an'  den  Ah  hears  all  dis  yere  talk  'bout  a 
hoss  sayirf  things  in  de  mornin', —  Yas,  suh, — yas, 
suh!  Comin'  right  along,  suh.  Little  mo'  side-meat, 
suh?" 

"Take  a  peep  out  of  the  window  and  see  if  any 
one  is  stirring  over  at  Mrs.  Gwyn's." 

"  'Pears  lak  Ah  c'n  see  a  lady  out  in  de  front  yard, 
suh,"  said  Zachariah,  at  the  window. 

"You  don't  say  so!  Is  it  Mrs.  Gwyn?"  cried  Ken 
neth,  hastily  gulping  his  coffee  as  he  pushed  his  chair 
back  from  the  table. 

"Hit  am'  light  enough  fo'  to  see — " 

"Run  out  and  saddle  Brandy  Boy  at  once,  and  be 
quick  about  it." 

"No,  suh,  hit  ain'  Mrs.  Gwyn.  Hit's  Miss  Violy. 
'Pears  lak  she  comin'  over  here,  suh.  Leastwise  she 


264  VIOLA    GWYN 

come  out'n  de  gate  kind  o'  fast-like, — gotten  a  shawl 
wrap  aroun' — " 

Kenneth  waited  for  no  more.  He  dashed  from 
the  house  and  down  to  the  fence, — where  stood  Viola, 
pulling  at  the  swollen,  water-soaked  gate  peg.  She 
was  bareheaded,  her  brown  hair  hanging  down  her 
back  in  long,  thick  braids.  It  was  apparent  at  a 
glance  that  she  had  dressed  hastily  and  but  partially 
at  that.  With  one  hand  she  pinched  close  about  her 
throat  the  voluminous  scarlet  shawl  of  embroidered 
crepe  in  which  the  upper  part  of  her  body  was 
wrapped. 

Later  he  was  to  observe  that  her  heavy  shoes  were 
unlaced  and  had  been  drawn  on  over  her  bare  feet. 
Her  eyes  were  filled  with  alarm. 

"I  don't  know  where  mother  is,"  she  said,  without 
other  greeting.  "She  is  not  in  the  house,  Kenny.  I 
am  worried  almost  sick." 

He  stared  at  her  in  dismay.  "Oh,  blast  the  luck! 
She  must  have —  Say,  are  you  sure  she's  gone?" 

"I  can't  find  her  anywhere,"  cried  she,  in  distress. 
"I've  been  out  to  the  barn  and —  Why,  what  ails 
you,  Kenneth?" 

"She  got  away  without  my  knowing  it.  But  maybe 
it's  not  too  late.  I  can  catch  up  with  them  if  I  hurry. 
Hey,  Zachariah!" 

"Then,  you  know  where  she  is?"  cried  the  girl, 
grasping  his  arm  as  he  turned  to  rush  away.  "For 
goodness'  sake,  tell  me!  Where  has  she  gone?" 

"Why,  don't  you —  But  of  course  you  don't !"  he 
exclaimed.  <rY"ou  poor  girl !  You  must  be  almost  beside 
yourself, — and  here  I  go  making  matters  worse  by — " 

"Where  is  she?"  she  broke  in,  all  the  colour  going 
from  her  face  as  she  shook  his  arm  impatiently. 


LAPELLE    SHOWS    HIS    TEETH    265 

"Come  in  the  house,"  he  said  gently,  consolingly. 
"I'll  tell  you  all  I  know.  There's  nothing  to  be  worried 
about.  She  will  be  home,  safe  and  sound,  almost  be 
fore  you  know  it.  I  will  explain  while  Zachariah  is 
saddling  Brandy  Boy."  He  laid  his  hand  upon  her 
shoulder.  "Come  along, — dear." 

She  held  back.  "If  anything  happens  to  her  and 
you  could  have — "  shie  began,  a  threat  in  her  <dark, 
harassed  eyes. 

"I  had  no  idea  she  would  start  at  such  an  unearthly 
hour.  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  go  with  her,  whether 
or  not.  Didn't  she  tell  you  she  had  made  an  affidavit 
against  Martin  Hawk?" 

"No.  The  sheriff  was  up  here  last  night,  just  after 
supper,  but, —  Oh,  Kenny,  what  is  it  all  about?" 

His  arm  stole  about  her  shoulders.  She  leaned 
heavily,  wearily  against  him  as  they  walked  up  the 
drenched  path. 

"Have  you  any  idea  at  all  what  time  she  left  the 
house?"  he  asked. 

"I  heard  her  go  down  the  stairs.  It  was  pitch  dark, 
but  the  clock  struck  one  quite  a  long  time  afterward. 
I  did  not  think  anything  about  it  then,  because  she 
often  gets  up  in  the  middle  of  the  nigrht  and  goes  down 
to  sit  in  the  kitchen.  Ever  since  father  died.  I  must 
have  gone  to  sleep  again  because  I  did  not  hear  her 
come  back  upstairs.  I  awoke  iust  at  daybreak  and 
got  up  to  see  if  she  needed  me.  She — she  had  not  gone 
to  bed  at  all,  Kenny. — and  I  couldn't  find  her  any 
where.  Then  I  thought  that  Martin  Hawk  and  the 
others  had  come  and  taken  her  away  by  mistake, 
thinking  it  was  me  in  the  darkness." 

"Sit  down,  Viola.  I'll  light  the  fire.  It's  quite  chilly 
and  you  are  shaking  like  a — " 


266  VIOLA   GWYN 

"I  want  to  know  where  she  has  gone,"  she  insisted. 

Then  he  told  her  briefly  as  much  as  he  thought  she 
ought  to  know.  She  was  vastly  relieved.  She  even 
smiled. 

"There's  no  use  of  your  trying  to  catch  up  with  her. 
Thank  you  for  lighting  the  fire,  Kenny.  If  you  don't 
mind,  I  will  sit  here  awhile,  and  I  may  go  to  sleep  in 
this  comfortable  chair  of  yours.  Goodness,  I  must 
look  awful.  My  hair — " 

"Don't  touch  it !  It  is  beautiful  as  it  is.  I  wish  girls 
would  always  wear  their  hair  in  braids  like  that." 

She  yawned,  stretched  her  legs  out  to  the  fire,  and 
then  suddenly  realizing  that  her  ankles  were  bare,  drew 
them  back  again  to  the  shelter  of  her  petticoat  with 
a  quick,  shy  glance  to  see  if  he  had  observed. 

"I  wish  I  could  cut  it  off, — like  a  boy's.  It  is  miles 
too  long.  You  might  as  well  head  Zachariah  off.  She 
has  been  gone  since  one  o'clock.  I  am  sure  I  heard 
the  front  door  close  before  I  dropped  off  to  sleep. 
Don't  fidget,  Kenny.  They've  probably  got  old  Martin 
in  the  calaboose  by  this  time.  Mother  never  fails  when 
she  sets  out  to  do  a  thing.  That  good-for-nothing 
sleepy-head,  Hattie,  never  heard  a  sound  last  night. 
What  a  conscience  she  must  have!" 

He  frowned  at  his  big  silver  watch.  "It's  after  five. 
See  here,  Viola,  suppose  you  just  curl  up  on  the  sofa 
there  and  get  some  sleep.  You  look  tired.  I'll  put  a 
quilt  over  you  and — " 

She  half-started  up  from  the  chair,  flushing  in  em 
barrassment. 

"Oh,  I  ought  not  to  stay  here,  Kenny.  Suppose 
somebody  were  to  come  along  and  catch  me  here  in 
your — " 

"Shucks!    You're  my  sister,  aren't  you?" 


LAPELLE    SHOWS    HIS    TEETH    267 

"I  suppose  it's  all  right,"  she  said  dubiously,  sink 
ing  back  into  the  chair  again.  "But  somehow,  Kenny, 
I  don't  believe  I  will  ever  be  able  to  think  of  you  as  a 
brother;  not  if  I  live  a  thousand  years.  I'm  sorry  to 
hurt  your  feelings,  but — well,  I  just  can't  help  being 
a  little  bit  afraid  of  you.  I  suppose  it's  silly  of  me, 
but  I'm  so  ashamed  to  have  you  see  me  with  my  hair 
down  like  this,  and  no  stockings  on,  and  only  half- 
dressed.  I — I  feel  hot  all  over.  I  didn't  think  of  it 
at  first,  I  was  so  worried,  but  now  I — " 

"It  is  very  silly  of  you,"  he  said,  rather  thickly. 
"You  did  right  in  coming  over,  and  I'm  going  to  make 
you  comfortable  now  that  you  are  here.  Lie  down  here 
and  get  some  sleep,  like  a  good  little  girl,  and  when 
you  wake  up  Zachariah  will  have  a  nice  hot  breakfast 
for  you." 

"I'd  rather  not  lie  down,"  she  stammered.  "Let  me 
just  sit  here  awhile, — and  don't  bother  about  break 
fast  for  me.  Hattie  will — " 

"But  he  has  to  get  breakfast  anyhow,"  he  argued. 

She  looked  at  him  suspiciously.  "Haven't  you  had 
your  breakfast?" 

"No,"  he  lied.  Then  he  hurried  off  to  give  guilty 
instructions  to  Zachariah. 

"Fo'  de  lan's  sake,"  the  latter  blurted  out  as  he 
listened  to  his  master's  orders ;  "is  yo'  all  gwine  to  eat 
another  breakfast?" 

"Yes,  I  am,"  snapped  Kenneth.  "I'll  take  care  of 
Brandy  Boy.  You  go  in  and  clear  the  table, — and 
see  to  it  that  you  don't  make  any  noise.  If  you  do, 
I'll  skin  you  alive." 

An  hour  later,  Kenneth  arose  from  his  seat  on  the 
front  doorstep  and  stole  over  to  the  sitting-room 
window. 


268  VIOLA    GWYN 

She  was  asleep  in  the  big  rocking-chair,  her  head 
twisted  limply  toward  her  left  shoulder,  presenting  a 
three-quarters  view  of  her  face  to  him  as  he  gazed  long 
and  ardently  upon  her.  He  could  see  the  deep  rise  and 
fall  of  her  bosom.  The  shawl,  unclasped  at  the  throat, 
had  fallen  away,  revealing  the  white  flannel  nightgown 
over  which  she  had  hastily  drawn  a  petticoat  before 
sallying  forth. 

He  went  to  the  kitchen  door  and  found  Zachariah 
sitting  grumpily  on  the  step. 

"She's  still  sound  asleep,'*  he  announced. 

"So's  dat  lazy  Hattie  over  yander,"  lamented 
Zachariah,  with  a  jerk  of  his  head.  "Ain'  no  smoke 
comin'  out'n  her  chimbley,  lemme  tell  yo'." 

"Fill  that  wash-pan  and  get  me  a  clean  towel,"  or 
dered  his  master.  He  looked  at  his  watch.  "I'm  going 
to  awaken  her, — in  half  an  hour." 

It  was  nearly  seven  o'clock  when  he  stamped  noisily 
into  the  sitting-room  with  towel  and  basin.  He  had 
thrice  repeated  his  visit  to  the  window,  and  with  each 
succeeding  visit  had  remained  a  little  longer  than  be 
fore,  notwithstanding  the  no  uncertain  sense  of  guilt 
that  accused  him  of  spying  upon  the  lovely  sleeper. 

She  awoke  with  a  start,  looked  blankly  about  as  if 
bewildered  by  her  strange  surroundings,  and  then  fixed 
her  wide,  questioning  eyes  upon  him,  watching  him  in 
silence  as  he  placed  the  basin  of  spring-water  on  a  chair 
and  draped  the  coarse  towel  over  the  back. 

"Breakfast  will  be  ready  in  ten  minutes,  Miss,"  he 
announced,  bowing  deeply.  "If  you  desire  to  freshen 
yourself  a  bit  after  your  profound  slumbers,  you  will 
find  here  some  of  the  finest  water  in  the  universe  and 
a  towel  warranted  to  produce  a  blush  upon  the  cheek 
of  a  graven  image." 


LAPELLE    SHOWS    HIS    TEETH    269 

"Has  mother  come  home  ?"  she  inquired  anxiously,  as 
she  drew  the  shawl  close  about  her  throat  again. 

"No  sign  of  her.  Hurry  along,  and  as  soon  as  we've 
had  a  bite  to  eat  I'll  ride  down  to  the  Court  House  and 
see  if  she's  there." 

He  left  her,  and  presently  she  came  out  into  the 
kitchen,  her  skin  glowing  warmly,  her  braids  loosely 
coiled  on  the  crown  of  her  head,  her  eyes  like  violet 
stars. 

Zachariah  marvelled  at  his  master's  appetite. 
Recollection  of  an  already  devoured  meal  of  no  small 
proportions  caused  him  to  doubt  his  senses.  From 
time  to  time  he  shook  his  head  in  wonder  and  finally 
took  to  chuckling.  The  next  time  Marse  Kenneth  com 
plained  about  having  no  appetite  he  would  know  what 
to  say  to  him. 

"I  must  run  home  now,"  said  Viola  at  the  close  of 
the  meal.  "It's  been  awfully  nice, — and  so  exciting, 
Kenny.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  doing  something  I  ought 
not  to  do.  Isn't  it  queer?  Having  breakfast  with  a 
man  I  never  saw  until  six  weeks  ago!" 

"It  does  my  heart  good  to  see  you  blush  so  prettily," 
said  he  warmly.  Then  his  face  darkened.  "And  it 
turns  my  blood  cold  to  think  that  if  you  had  succeeded 
in  doing  something  you  ought  not  to  have  done  six 
weeks  ago,  you  might  now  be  having  breakfast  with 
somebody  else  instead  of  with  me." 

"I  wish  you  would  not  speak  of  that,  Kenneth,"  she 
said  severely.  "You  will  make  me  hate  you  if  you  bring 
it  up  again."  Then  she  added  with  a  plaintive  little 
smile:  "The  Bible  says,  'Love  thy  neighbour  as  thy 
self.'  I  am  doing  my  best  to  live  up  to  that,  but  some 
times  you  make  it  awfully  hard  for  me." 

He  went  to  the  door  with  her.     She  paused  for  a 


270  VIOLA    GWYN 

moment  on  the  step  to  look  searchingly  up  the  road 
and  through  the  trees.  There  was  no  sign  of  her 
mother.  The  anxious,  worried  expression  deepened  in 
her  eyes. 

"Don't  come  any  farther  with  me,'*  she  said.  "Go 
down  to  the  Court  House  as  fast  as  you  can." 

He  watched  her  till  she  passed  through  the  gate. 
As  he  was  on  the  point  of  re-entering  the  house  he  saw 
her  come  to  an  abrupt  stop  and  stare  straight  ahead. 
He  shot  a  swift,  apprehensive  glance  over  his  shoulder. 

Barry  Lapelle  had  just  emerged  from  Rachel's  yard, 
his  gaze  fixed  on  the  girl  who  stood  motionless  in  front 
of  Gwynne's  gate,  a  hundred  feet  away.  Without 
taking  his  eyes  from  her,  he  slowly  closed  the  gate  and 
leaned  against  it,  folding  his  arms  as  he  did  so. 

Viola,  after  a  moment's  indecision  and  without  a 
glance  at  Kenneth,  lifted  her  chin  and  went  forward  to 
the  encounter.  Kenneth  looked  in  all  directions  for 
Lapelle's  rascals.  He  was  relieved  to  find  that  the 
discarded  suitor  apparently  had  ventured  alone  upon 
this  early  morning  mission.  What  did  it  portend? 

Filled  with  sharp  misgivings,  he  left  his  doorstep 
and  walked  slowly  down  to  the  gate,  where  he  halted. 
It  occurred  to  him  that  Barry,  after  a  sleepless  night, 
had  come  to  make  peace  with  his  tempestuous  sweet 
heart.  If  such  was  the  case,  his  own  sense  of  fairness 
and  dignity  would  permit  no  interference  on  his  part 
unless  it  was  solicited  by  the  girl  herself.  He  was 
ready,  however,  to  take  instant  action  if  she  made  the 
slightest  sign  of  distress  or  alarm.  While  he  had  no 
intention  of  spying  or  eavesdropping,  their  voices 
reached  him  distinctly  and  he  could  not  help  hearing 
what  passed  between  them. 

"Have   you   been   up   to   the  house,   Barry?"   were 


LAPELLE    SHOWS    HIS    TEETH     271 

Viola's  first  words  as  she  stopped  in  front  of  the  man 
who  barred  the  way. 

Lapelle  did  not  change  his  position.  His  chin  was 
lowered  and  he  was  looking  at  her  through  narrowed, 
unsmiling  eyes. 

"Yes,  I  have." 

"Where  was  the  dog  ?"  she  inquired  cuttingly. 

"He  came  and  licked  my  hand.  He's  the  only  friend 
I've  got  up  here,  I  reckon." 

"I  will  have  him  shot  to-day.    What  do  you  want?" 

"I  came  to  see  your  mother.     Where  is  she?" 

"She's  away." 

"Over  night?" 

"It  will  do  you  no  good  to  see  her,  Barry.  You 
might  as  well  realize  it  first  as  last." 

Lapelle  glanced  past  her  at  the  man  beyond  and 
lowered  his  voice.  Kenneth  could  not  hear  what  he  said. 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  see  her,  and  she  will  be  down 
on  her  knees  before  I'm  through  with  her,  let  me  tell 
you.  Oh,  I'm  sober,  Viola!  I  had  my  lesson  yester 
day.  I'm  through  with  whiskey  forever.  So  she  was 
away  all  night,  eh?  Out  to  the  farm,  eh?  That  nigger 
girl  of  yours  says  she  must  have  gone  out  to  the  farm 
last  night,  because  her  bed  wasn't  slept  in.  And  you 
weren't  expecting  visitors  as  early  as  this  or  you  would 
have  got  home  a  little  sooner  yourself,  huh?" 

"What  are  you  talking  about?" 

"Soon  as  she  is  out  of  the  house  you  scoot  over  to 
big  brother  Kenny's,  eh?  Afraid  to  sleep  alone,  I 
suppose.  Well,  all  I've  got  to  say  is  you  ought  to  have 
taken  a  little  more  time  to  dress." 

"Oh!  Oh, — you — you  low-lived  dog!"  she  gasped, 
going  white  to  the  roots  of  her  hair.  "How  dare  you 
say—" 


272  VIOLA    GWYN 

"That's  right!  Call  me  all  the  pretty  names  you 
can  think  of.  And  say,  I  didn't  come  up  here  to  beg 
anything  from  you  or  your  mother.  I'm  not  in  a  beg 
ging  humour.  I'm  through  licking  your  boots,  Viola. 
What  time  will  the  old  woman  be  back?" 

"Stand  away  from  that  gate!"  she  said  in  a  voice 
low  and  hoarse  with  fury.  "Don't  you  dare  speak  to 
me  again.  And  if  you  follow  me  to  the  house  I'll — 
I'll—" 

"What'll  you  do?"  he  jeered.  "Call  brother  Kenny? 
Well,  go  ahead  and  call  him.  There  he  is.  I'll  kick 
him  from  here  to  the  pond, — and  that  won't  be  half 
so  pleasant  as  rocking  little  sister  to  sleep  in  her  cradle 
while  mamma  is  out  for  the  night." 

"And  I  used  to  think  I  was  in  love  with  you!"  she 
cried  in  sheer  disgust.  "I  could  spit  in  your  face, 
Barry  Lapelle.  Will  you  let  me  pass?" 

"Certainly.  But  I'm  going  into  the  house  with  you, 
understand  that.  I'd  just  as  soon  wait  there  for  your 
mother  as  anywhere  else." 

"When  my  mother  hears  about  this  she  will  have 
you  horsewhipped  within  an  inch  of  your  life,"  cried  the 
girl  furiously. 

These  words,  rising  on  a  wave  of  anger,  came  dis 
tinctly  to  Kenneth's  ears.  He  left  his  place  at  the 
gate  and  walked  swiftly  along  inside  his  fence  until  he 
came  to  the  corner  of  the  yard,  where  the  bushes  grew 
thickly.  Here  he  stopped  to  await  further  develop 
ments.  He  heard  Barry  say,  with  a  harsh  laugh : 

"Oh,  she  will,  will  she?" 

"Yes,  she  will.  She  knows  more  about  you  than  you 
think  she  does, — and  so  do  I.  Let  me  by !  Do  you  hear 
me,  Bar — " 

"That's  funny,"  he  interrupted,  lowering  his  voice  to 


LAPELLE    SHOWS    HIS    TEETH    273 

a  half- whisper.  "That's  just  what  I  came  up  to  see 
her  about.  I  want  to  tell  her  that  I  know  more  about 
her  than  she  thinks  I  do.  And  when  I  get  through  tell 
ing  her  what  I  know  she'll  change  her  mind  about  let 
ting  us  get  married.  And  you'll  marry  me,  too,  my 
girl,  without  so  much  as  a  whimper.  Oh,  you  needn't 
look  around  for  big  brother, — God,  I  bet  you'd  be 
happy  if  he  wasn't  your  brother,  wouldn't  you?  Well, 
he  has  sneaked  into  the  house,  just  as  I  knew  he  would 
if  it  looked  like  a  squall.  He's  a  white-livered  coward. 
How  do  you  like  that?" 

He  was  not  only  astonished  but  distinctly  confounded 
by  the  swift,  incomprehensible  smile  that  played  about 
her  disdainful  lips. 

"What  the  hellfire  are  you  laughing  at?"  he  ex 
ploded. 

"Nothing  much.  I  was  only  thinking  about  last 
night." 

"Christ !"  he  exclaimed,  the  blood  rushing  to  his  face. 
"Why, — why,  you — "  The  words  failed  him.  He  could 
only  stare  at  her  as  if  stunned  by  the  most  shocking 
confession. 

"Please  remember  that  you  are  speaking  to — " 

He  broke  in  with  a  snarling  laugh.  "By  thunder, 
I'm  beginning  to  believe  you're  no  better  than  she  was. 

She  wasn't  anything  but  a  common  ,  and  I'm 

blessed  if  I  think  it's  sensible  to  marry  into  the  family, 
after  all." 

"Oh!"  she  gasped,  closing  her  eyes  as  she  shrank 
away  from  him.  The  word  he  had  used  stood  for  the 
foulest  thing  on  earth  to  her.  It  had  never  passed  her 
clean,  pure  lips.  For  the  moment  she  was  petrified, 
speechless. 

"It's  about  time  you  learned  the  truth  about  that 


274  VIOLA   GWYN 

damned  old  hypocrite, — if  you  don't  know  it  already," 
he  continued,  raising  his  voice  at  the  urge  of  the  now 
reckless  fury  that  consumed  him.  He  stood  over  her 
shrinking  figure,  glaring  mercilessly  down  into  her 
horror-struck  eyes.  "You  don't  need  to  take  my  word 
for  it.  Ask  Gwynne.  He  knows.  He  knows  what 
happened  back  there  in  Kentucky.  He  knows  she  ran 
off  with  his  father  twenty  years  ago,  taking  him  away 
from  the  woman  he  was  married  to.  That's  why  he 
hates  her.  That's  why  he  never  had  anything  to  do 
with  his  dog  of  a  father.  And,  by  God,  he  probably 
knows  you  were  born  out  of  wedlock, — that  you're  a 
love-child,  a  bas — " 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE    BLOW 

HE  never  finished  the  word.  A  whirlwind  was 
upon  him.  Before  he  could  raise  a  hand  to 
defend  himself,  Kenneth  Gwynne's  brawny  fist 
smote  him  squarely  between  the  eyes.  He  went  down 
as  though  struck  by  a  sledge-hammer,  crashing  to  the 
ground  full  six  feet  from  where  he  stood.  Behind  that 
clumsy  blow  was  the  weight  of  a  thirteen  stone  body, 
hurled  as  from  a  mighty  catapult. 

He  never  knew  how  long  afterward  it  was  that  he 
heard  a  voice  speaking  to  him.  The  words,  jumbled 
and  unintelligible,  seemed  to  come  from  a  great  dis 
tance.  He  attempted  to  rise,  gave  it  up,  and  fell  back 
dizzily.  His  vision  was  slow  in  clearing.  What  he 
finally  saw,  through  blurred,  uncertain  eyes,  was  the 
face  of  Kenneth  Gwynne,  far  above  him, — and  it  was  a 
long  time  before  it  stopped  whirling  and  became  fixed 
in  one  place.  Then  he  realized  that  it  was  the  voice 
of  Gwynne  that  was  speaking  to  him,  and  he  made  out 
the  words.  Something  warm  and  wet  crept  along  the 
sides  of  his  mouth,  over  his  chin,  down  his  neck.  His 
throat  was  full  of  a  hot  nauseous  fluid.  He  raised 
himself  on  one  elbow  and  spat. 

"Get  up !  Get  up,  you  filthy  whelp !  I'm  not  going 
to  hit  you  again.  Get  up,  I  say!" 

He  struggled  to  his  knees  and  then  to  his  feet,  sag 
ging  limply  against  the  fence,  to  which  he  clung  for 

275 


276  VIOLA    GWYN 

support.  He  felt  for  his  nose,  filled  with  a  horrid, 
sickening  dread  that  it  was  no  longer  on  his  face. 

"I  ought  to  kill  you,"  he  heard  Gwynne  saying.  "You 
black-hearted,  lying  scoundrel.  Get  out  of  my  sight!" 

He  succeeded  in  straightening  up  and  looked  about 
him  through  a  mist  of  tears.  He  tried  to  speak,  but 
could  only  wheeze  and  sputter.  He  cleared  his  throat 
raucously  and  spat  again. 

"Where — where  is  she  ?"  he  managed  to  say  at  last. 

"Shut  up!    You've  dealt  her  the  foulest — " 

He  broke  off  abruptly,  struck  by  the  other's  expres 
sion:  Lapelle  was  staring  past  him  in  the  direction  of 
the  house  and  there  was  the  look  of  a  frightened, 
trapped  animal  in  his  glassy  eyes. 

"My  God !"  fell  from  his  lips,  and  then  suddenly  he 
sprang  forward,  placing  Kenneth's  body  between  him 
and  the  object  of  his  terror.  "Stop  her!  For  God's 
sake,  Gwynne, — stop  her!" 

For  the  first  time  since  Barry  went  crashing  to 
earth  and  lay  as  one  dead,  Gwynne  raised  his  eyes  from 
the  blood-smeared  face.  Vaguely  he  remembered  the 
swift  rush  of  Viola's  feet  as  she  sped  past  him, — but 
that  was  long  ago  and  he  had  not  looked  to  see  whither 
she  fled. 

She  was  now  coming  down  the  steps  of  the  porch,  a 
half-raised  rifle  in  her  hands.  He  was  never  to  forget 
her  white,  set  face,  nor  the  menacing  look  in  her  eyes 
as  she  advanced  to  the  killing  of  Barry  Lapelle, — for 
there  was  no  mistaking  her  purpose. 

"Drop  down!"  he  shouted  to  Lapelle.  As  Barry 
sank  cowering  behind  him,  he  cried  out  sharply  to  the 
girl:  "Viola!  Drop  that  gun!  Do  you  hear  me? 
Good  God,  have  you  lost  your  senses  ?" 

She  came  on  slowly,  her  head  a  little  to  one  side  the 


THE    BLOW  277 

better  to  see  the  partially  obscured  figure  of  the  crouch 
ing  man. 

"It  won't  do  you  any  good  to  hide,  Barry,"  she  said, 
in  a  voice  that  neither  of  the  men  recognized. 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Viola!"  cried  Kenneth.  "Leave 
him  to  me.  Go  back  to  the  house.  I  will  attend  to 
him." 

She  stopped  and  lifted  her  eyes  to  stare  at  the 
speaker  in  sheer  wonder  and  astonishment. 

"Why, — you  heard  what  he  said.  You  heard  what 
he  called  my  mother.  Stand  away  from  him,  Kenneth." 

"I  can't  allow  you  to  shoot  him,  Viola.  You  will 
have  to  shoot  me  first.  My  God,  child, — do  you  want 
to  have  a  man's  life-blood  on  your  hands?" 

"He  said  she  ran  away  with  your  father,"  she  cried, 
a  spasm  of  pain  crossing  her  face.  "He  said  I  was 
born  before  they  were  married.  I  have  a  right  to  kill 
him.  Do  you  hear?  I  have  a  right  to — " 

"Don't  you  know  it  would  be  murder?  Cold-blooded 
murder?  No !  You  will  have  to  kill  me  first.  Do  you 
understand?  I  shall  not  move  an  inch.  I  am  not 
going  to  let  you  do  something  you  will  regret  to  the 
end  of  your  life.  Put  it  down !  Drop  that  gun,  I  say  t 
If  there  is  to  be  any  killing,  I  will  do  it, — not  you !" 

She  closed  her  eyes.  Her  tense  body  relaxed.  The 
two  men,  watching  her  with  bated  breath  and  vastly 
different  emotions,  could  almost  visualize  the  struggle 
that  was  going  on  within  her.  At  last  the  long  rifle 
barrel  was  lowered ;  as  the  muzzle  touched  the  ground 
she  opened  her  eyes.  Slowly  they  went  from  Kenneth 
to  the  man  who  crouched  behind  him.  She  gazed  at 
the  bloody  face  as  if  seeing  it  for  the  first  time. 

The  woman  in  her  revolted  at  the  spectacle.  After 
a  moment  of  indecision,  she  turned  with  a  shudder  and 


278  VIOLA    GWYN 

walked  toward  the  house,  dragging  the  rifle  by  the 
stock.  As  she  was  about  to  mount  the  steps  she 
paused  to  send  a  swift  glance  over  her  shoulder  and 
then,  obeying  the  appeal  in  Kenneth's  eyes,  re 
luctantly,  even  carefully,  leaned  the  gun  against  a  post 
and  disappeared  through  the  door. 

"Stand  up!"  ordered  Gwynne,  turning  to  Lapelle. 
"I  ought  to  kill  you  myself.  It's  in  my  heart  to  do  so. 
Do  you  know  what  you've  done  to  her?" 

Barry  drew  himself  up,  his  fast  swelling,  bloodshot 
eyes  filled  with  a  deadly  hatred.  His  voice  was  thick 
and  unsteady. 

"You'd  better  kill  me  while  you  have  the  chance," 
he  said.  "Because,  so  help  me  God,  I'm  going  to  kill 
you  for  this." 

"Go !"  thundered  the  other,  his  hands  twitching.  "If 
you  don't,  I'll  strangle  the  life  out  of  you." 

Lapelle  drew  back,  quailing  before  the  look  in  Ken 
neth's  eyes.  He  saw  murder  in  them. 

"You  didn't  give  me  a  chance,  damn  you,"  he  snarled. 
"You  hit  me  before  I  had  a  chance  to — " 

"I  wish  to  God  I  had  hit  you  sooner, — and  that  I  had 
killed  you,"  grated  Kenneth. 

"You  will  wish  that  with  all  your  soul  before  I  am 
through  with  you,"  snarled  Barry.  "Oh,  I'm  not  afraid 
of  you!  I  know  the  whole  beastly  story  about  your 
father  and  that — " 

"Stop!"  cried  Kenneth,  taking  a  step  forward,  his 
arm  drawn  back.  "Not  another  word,  Lapelle !  You've 
said  enough !  I  know  where  you  got  your  information, 
— and  I  can  tell  you,  here  and  now,  that  the  man  lied 
to  you.  I'm  going  to  give  you  twenty-four  hours  to 
get  out  of  this  town  for  good.  And  if  I  hear  that  you 
have  repeated  a  word  of  what  you  said  to  her  I'll  see 


THE    BLOW  279 

to  it  that  you  are  strung  up  by  the  neck  and  your 
miserable  carcass  filled  with  bullets.  Oh,  you  needn't 
sputter!  It  will  be  your  word  against  mine.  I  guess 
you  know  which  of  us  the  men  of  this  town  will  be 
lieve.  And  you  needn't  expect  to  be  supported  by 
your  friend  Jasper  Suggs  or  the  gentle  Mr.  Hawk, — 
Aha,  that  got  under  your  pelt,  didn't  it?  If  either  of 
them  is  still  alive  at  this  minute,  it's  because  he  sur 
rendered  without  a  fight  and  not  because  God  took 
care  of  him.  Your  beautiful  game  is  spoiled,  Lapelle, 
— and  you'll  be  lucky  to  get  off  with  a  whole  skin.  I'm 
giving  you  a  chance.  Get  out  of  this  town, — and  stay 
out!" 

Barry,  recovering  quickly  from  the  shock,  made  a 
fair  show  of  bravado. 

"What  are  you  talking  about  ?  What  the  devil  have 
I  got  to  do  with — " 

"That's  enough !  You  know  what  I'm  talking  about. 
Take  my  advice.  Get  out  of  town  before  you  are  a 
day  older.  You  will  save  yourself  a  ride  on  a  rail  and 
a  rawhiding  that  you'll  not  forget  to  your  dying  day." 

"I  will  leave  this  town  when  I  feel  like  it,  Gwynne," 
said  Lapelle,  drawing  himself  up.  "I  don't  take  orders 
from  you.  You  will  hear  from  me  later.  You've  got 
the  upper  hand  now, — with  that  nigger  of  yours  stand 
ing  over  there  holding  an  axe  in  his  hands,  ready  to 
kill  me  if  I  make  a  move.  We'll  settle  this  in  the  regu 
lar  way,  Gwynne, — with  pistols.  You  may  expect  a 
friend  of  mine  to  call  on  you  shortly." 

"As  you  like,"  retorted  the  other,  bowing  stiffly. 
"You  may  name  the  time  and  place." 

Lapelle  bowed  and  then  cast  an  eye  about  in  quest 
of  his  hat.  It  was  lying  in  the  road  some  distance 
away.  He  strode  over  and  picked  it  up.  Quite  nat- 


280  VIOLA    GWYN 

urally,  perhaps  unconsciously,  he  resorted  to  the  habit 
of  years:  he  cocked  it  slightly  at  just  the  right  angle 
over  his  eye.  Then,  without  a  glance  behind,  he 
crossed  the  road  and  plunged  into  the  thicket. 

Kenneth  watched  him  till  he  disappeared  from  view. 
Suddenly  aware  of  a  pain  in  his  hand,  he  held  it  out 
before  him  and  was  astonished  to  find  that  the  knuckles 
were  already  beginning  to  puff.  He  winced  when  he 
tried  to  clench  his  fist.  A  rueful  smile  twitched  at  the 
corners  of  his  mouth. 

"Mighty  slim  chance  I'll  have,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"Won't  be  able  to  pull  a  trigger  to  save  my  life." 

He  hurried  up  the  path  and,  without  knocking, 
opened  the  door  and  entered  the  house.  Hattie  was 
coming  down  the  stairs,  her  eyes  as  round  as  saucers. 

"Where  is  Miss  Viola?" 

"She  done  gone  up  stairs,  suh.  Lan*  sakes,  Mistah 
G wynne,  what  fo'  yo'  do  dat  to  Mistah  Barry?  He 
her  beau.  Didn't  yo'all  know  dat?  Ah  close  mah  eyes 
when  she  tooken  dat  gun  out  dar.  Sez  Ah,  she  gwine 
to  shoot  Mistah  Gwynne — " 

"Tell  her  I'm  here,  Hattie.  I  must  see  her  at  once. 
It's  all  right.  She  isn't  angry  with  me." 

The  girl  hesitated.  "She  look  mighty  white  an*  sick, 
suh.  She  never  say  a  word.  Jes'  go  right  up  stairs, 
she  did.  Ah  follers,  'ca'se  Ah  was  skeert  about  de  way 
she  look.  She  shutten  de  do'  an'  drop  de  bolt, — yas, 
suh,  dat's  what  she  do.  Lordy,  Ah  wonder  why  her 
ma  don't  come  home  an'  look  after — " 

"See  here,"  he  broke  in,  "don't  disturb  her  now.  I 
will  come  back  in  a  little  while.  If  she  wants  me  for 
anything  you  will  find  me  out  at  the  gate.  Do  you 
understand?  Don't  fail  to  call  me.  I  am  going  out 
there  to  wait  for  her  mother." 


THE    BLOW  281 

It  suddenly  had  occurred  to  him  that  he  ought  to 
intercept  Rachel  Carter  before  she  reached  the  house, 
not  only  to  prepare  her  for  the  shock  that  awaited 
her  but  to  devise  between  them  some  means  of  undoing 
the  harm  that  already  had  been  done.  They  would 
have  to  stand  together  in  denouncing  Barry,  they  would 
have  to  swear  to  Viola  that  the  story  was  false.  He 
realized  what  this  would  mean  to  him:  an  almost  pro 
fane  espousal  of  his  enemy's  cause,  involving  not  only 
the  betrayal  of  his  own  conscience,  but  the  deliberate 
repudiation  of  the  debt  he  owed  his  mother  and  her 
people.  He  would  have  to  go  before  Viola  and  pro 
claim  the  innocence  of  the  woman  who  had  robbed  and 
murdered  his  own  mother.  The  unthinkable,  the  un 
believable  confronted  him. 

A  cold  sweat  broke  out  all  over  him  as  he  stood 
down  by  the  gate,  torn  between  hatred  for  one  woman 
and  love  for  another:  Rachel  and  Minda  Carter.  He 
could  not  spare  one  without  sparing  the  other;  lying 
to  one  of  them  meant  lying  for  the  other.  But  there 
was  no  alternative.  The  memory  of  the  look  in  Viola's 
eyes  as  she  shrank  away  from  Lapelle,  the  thought  of 
the  cruel  shock  she  must  have  suffered,  the  picture  of 
her  as  she  came  down  the  path  to  kill — no,  there  could 
be  no  alternative! 

And  so,  as  he  leaned  rigidly  against  the  gate,  sick 
at  heart  but  clear  of  head,  waiting  for  Rachel  Carter, 
he  came  to  think  that,  after  all,  a  duel  with  Barry 
Lapelle  might  prove  to  be  the  easiest  and  noblest  way 
out  of  his  difficulties. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE    AFFAIR    AT    HAWK*S    CABIN 

IT  wanted  half  an  hour  of  daybreak  when  a  slow- 
riding,  silent  group  of  men  came  to  a  halt  and 
dismounted  in  the  narrow  lane  some  distance  from 
the  ramshackle  abode  of  Martin  Hawk,  squatting  un 
seen  among  the  trees  that  lined  the  steep  bank  of  the 
Wabash.  A  three  hours'  ride  through  dark,  muddy 
roads  lay  behind  them.  There  were  a  dozen  men  in  all, 
— and  one  woman,  at  whose  side  rode  the  hunter,  Stain. 
They  had  stopped  at  the  latter's  cabin  on  the  way  down, 
and  she  had  conversed  apart  with  him  through  a  win 
dow.  Then  they  rode  off,  leaving  him  to  follow. 

There  were  no  lights,  and  no  man  spoke  above  a 
whisper.  The  work  of  tethering  the  horses  progressed 
swiftly  but  with  infinite  caution.  Eyes  made  sharp  by 
long  hours  of  darkness  served  their  owners  well  in  this 
stealthy  enterprise. 

The  half-hour  passed  and  the  night  began  to  lift. 
Vague  unusual  objects  slowly  took  shape,  like  gloomy 
spectres  emerging  from  impenetrable  fastnesses.  Black 
ness  gave  way  to  a  faint  drab  pall;  then  the  cold, 
unearthly  grey  of  the  still  remote  dawn  came  stealing 
across  the  fields. 

At  last  it  was  light  enough  to  see,  and  the  advance 
upon  the  cabin  began.  Silently  through  the  dense, 
shadowy  wood  crept  the  sheriff  and  his  men, — followed 

by  the  tall  woman  in  black  and  a  lank,  bearded  man 

282 


AFFAIR    AT    HAWK'S    CABIN     283 

whose  rifle-stock  bore  seven  tiny  but  significant  notches, 
— sinister  epitaphs  for  as  many  by-gone  men. 

A  dog  barked, — the  first  alarm.  Then  another,  and 
still  a  third  joined  in  a  fierce  outcry  against  the  in 
vaders.  Suddenly  the  door  of  the  hut  was  thrown 
open  and  a  half-dressed  man  stooped  in  the  low  aper 
ture,  peering  out  across  the  dawn-shrouded  clearing. 
The  three  coon-dogs,  slinking  out  of  the  shadows, 
crowded  up  to  the  door,  their  snarling  muzzles  pointed 
toward  the  encircling  trees. 

Two  men  stepped  out  of  the  underbrush  and  ad 
vanced.  Even  in  the  dim,  uncertain  light,  Martin 
Hawk  could  see  that  they  carried  rifles.  His  eyes  were 
like  those  of  the  bird  whose  name  he  bore.  They  swept 
the  clearing  in  a  flash.  As  if  by  magic,  men  appeared 
to  right  of  him,  to  left  of  him,  in  front  of  him.  He 
counted  them.  Seven, — no,  there  was  another, — eight. 
And  he  knew  there  were  more  of  them,  back  of  the 
house,  cutting  off  retreat  to  the  river. 

"Don't  move,  Martin,"  called  out  a  voice. 

"What  do  you  want?"  demanded  Hawk,  in  a  sharp, 
querulous  voice. 

"I  am  the  sheriff.  Got  a  warrant  for  your  arrest. 
No  use  makin'  a  fight  for  it,  Hawk.  You  are  com 
pletely  surrounded.  You  can't  get  away." 

"I  ain't  done  nothin'  to  be  arrested  fer,"  cried  the 
man  in  the  doorway.  "I'm  an  honest  man, — I  hain't 
ever  done — " 

"Well,  that's  not  for  me  to  decide,"  interrupted  the 
sheriff,  now  not  more  than  a  dozen  feet  away.  "I've 
got  a  warrant  charging  you  with  sheep-stealing  and  so 
on,  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it.  I'm  not  the  judge 
and  jury.  You  come  along  quiet  now  and  no  fool 
ishness." 


284  VIOLA    GWYN 

"Who  says  I  stole  sheep?" 

"Step  outside  here  and  I'll  read  the  affidavit  to  you. 
And  say,  if  you  don't  want  your  dogs  massacreed, 
you'd  better  call  'em  off." 

Martin  Hawk  looked  over  his  shoulder  into  the  dark 
interior  of  the  hut,  spoke  to  some  one  under  his  breath, 
and  then  began  cursing  his  dogs. 

"I  might  have  knowed  you'd  git  me  into  trouble,  you 
lop-eared,  sheep-killin'  whelps !"  he  whined.  "I'd  ought 
to  shot  the  hull  pack  of  ye  when  you  was  pups.  Git 
out'n  my  sight !  There's  yer  sheep-stealers,  sheriff, — 
them  ornery,  white-livered,  blood-suckin' — " 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  that,  Martin," 
snapped  the  sheriff.  "All  I  know  is,  you  got  to  come 
along  with  me, — peaceable  or  otherwise, — and  I  guess 
if  you're  half  as  smart  as  I  think  you  are,  you  won't 
come  otherwise.  Here!  Don't  go  back  in  that  house, 
Hawk." 

"Well,  I  got  to  tell  my  daughter — " 

"We'll  tell  her.  There's  another  man  or  two  in 
there.  Just  tell  'em  to  step  outside, — and  leave  their 
weapons  behind  'em." 

"There  ain't  a  livin*  soul  in  thar,  'cept  my  daugh 
ter, — so  he'p  me  God,  sheriff,"  cried  Hawk,  his  teeth 
beginning  to  chatter.  The  sheriff  was  close  enough  to 
see  the  look  of  terror  and  desperation  in  his  eyes. 

"No  use  lyin',  Hawk.  You've  got  a  man  named 
Suggs  stayin'  with  you.  He  ain't  accused  of  anything, 
so  he  needn't  be  afraid  to  come  out.  Same  applies  to 
your  daughter  Moll.  But  I  don't  want  anybody  in 
there  to  take  a  shot  at  us  the  minute  we  turn  our  backs. 
Shake  *em  out,  Hawk." 

"I  tell  ye  there  ain't  nobody  here  but  me  an'  Moll, — 
an'  she's  sick.  She  can't  come  out.  An* — an'  you. 


AFFAIR    AT    HAWK'S    CABIN     285 

can't  go  in, — not  unless  you  got  a  warrant  to  search 
my  house.  That's  what  the  law  sez, — an'  you  know  it. 
I'll  go  along  with  you  peaceable, — an'  stand  my  trial 
fer  sheep-stealin'  like  a  man.  Lemme  get  my  hat  an' 
coat,  an'  I'll  come — " 

"I  guess  there's  something  queer  about  all  this," 
interrupted  the  sheriff.  The  man  beside  him  had  just 
whispered  something  in  his  ear.  "W.e'll  take  a  look 
inside  that  cabin,  law  or  no  law,  Hawk.  Move  up, 
boys !"  he  called  out  to  the  scattered  men.  "Keep  your 
eyes  skinned.  If  you  ketch  sight  of  a  rifle  ball  comin' 
to'ards  you, — dodge.  And  you,  Martin,  step  outside 
here,  where  you  won't  be  in  the  way.  I'm  going  in 
there." 

Martin  Hawk  looked  wildly  about  him.  On  all  sides 
were  men  with  rifles.  There  was  no  escape.  His  craven 
heart  failed  him,  his  knees  gave  way  beneath  him  and  an 
instant  later  he  was  grovelling  in  the  mud  at  the 
sheriff's  feet. 

"I  didn't  do  it !  I  didn't  do  it !  I  swear  to  God  I 
didn't.  It  was  her.  She  done  it, — Moll  done  it!"  he 
squealed  in  abject  terror. 

He  was  grabbed  by  strong  hands  and  jerked  to  his 
feet.  While  others  held  him,  the  sheriff  and  several  of 
the  men  rushed  into  the  cabin. 

Off  at  the  edge  of  the  clearing  stood  Rachel  Carter 
and  Isaac  Stain,  watching  the  scene  at  the  door. 

"One  look  will  be  enough,"  the  woman  had  said 
tersely.  "Twenty  years  will  not  have  changed  Simon 
Braley  much.  I  will  know  him  at  sight." 

"You  got  to  be  sure,  Mrs.  Gwyn,"  muttered  the 
hunter.  "Ef  you  got  the  slightest  doubt,  say  so." 

"I  will,  Isaac." 

"And  ef  you  say  it's  him,  fer  sure  an'  no  mistake, 


286  VIOLA    GWYN 

I'll  foller  him  to  the  end  of  the  world  but  what  I  git 
him." 

"If  it  is  Simon  Braley  he  will  make  a  break  for 
cover.  He  is  not  like  that  whimpering  coward  over 
yonder.  And  the  sheriff  will  make  no  attempt  to  bring 
him  down.  There  is  no  complaint  against  him.  No  one 
knows  that  he  is  Simon  Braley." 

"Well,  I'll  be  on  his  heels,"  was  the  grim  promise  of 
Isaac  Stain,  thinking  of  the  sister  who  had  been  slain 
by  Braley's  Indians  down  on  the  River  White. 

One  of  the  men  rushed  out  of  the  cabin.  He  was 
vastly  excited. 

"Don't  let  go  of  him,"  he  shouted  to  the  men  who 
were  holding  Martin.  "There's  hell  to  pay  in  there. 
Where  is  Mrs.  Gwyn?" 

"I  never  done  it!"  wailed  Martin,  livid  with  terror. 
"I  swear  to  God—" 

"Shut  up!" 

"She's  over  there,  Sam, — with  Ike  Stain." 

Ignoring  the  question  that  followed  him,  the  man 
called  Sam  hurried  up  to  the  couple  at  the  edge  of  the 
bush. 

"Better  clear  out,  Mrs.  Gwyn,"  he  said  soberly.  "I 
mean,  don't  stay  around.  Something  in  there  you 
oughtn't  to  see." 

"What  is  it?"  she  inquired  sharply. 

"Well,  you  see, — there's  a  dead  man  in  there, — 
knifed.  Blood  all  over  everything  and — " 

"The  man  called  Suggs?" 

"I  reckon  so.  Leastwise  it  must  be  him.  'Pears  to 
be  a  stranger  to  all  of  us.  Deader'n  a  door  nail. 
He's—" 

"I  am  not  chicken-hearted,  Mr.  Corbin,"  she  an 
nounced.  "I  have  seen  a  good  many  dead  men  in  my 


AFFAIR    AT    HAWK'S    CABIN     287 

time.  The  sight  of  blood  does  not  affect  me.  I  will 
go  in  and  see  him.  No !  Please  do  not  stay  me." 

Despite  his  protestations,  she  strode  resolutely 
across  the  lot.  As  she  passed  Martin  Hawk  that 
cowering  rascal  stared  at  her,  first  without  compre 
hension,  then  with  a  suddenly  awakened,  acute  under 
standing. 

It  was  she  who  had  brought  the  authorities  down 
upon  him.  She  had  made  "affidavy"  against  him, — she 
had  got  him  into  this  horrible  mess  by  swearing  that 
he  stole  her  sheep  and  calves.  True,  he  had  stolen  from 
her, — there  was  no  doubt  about  that, — but  he  had 
covered  his  tracks  perfectly.  Any  one  of  a  half-dozen 
men  along  the  river  might  have  stolen  her  stock, — they 
were  stealing  right  and  left.  How  then  did  she  come 
to  fix  upon  him  as  the  one  to  accuse?  In  a  flash  he 
leaped  to  a  startling  conclusion.  Barry  Lapelle! 
The  man  who  knew  all  about  his  thievish  transactions 
and  who  for  months  had  profited  by  them.  Hides, 
wool,  fresh  meats  from  the  secret  lairs  and  slaughter 
pens  back  in  the  trackless  wilds,  all  these  had  gone 
down  the  river  on  Barry's  boats,  products  of  a  far- 
reaching  system  of  outlawry,  with  Barry  and  his  cap 
tains  sharing  in  the  proceeds. 

Now  he  understood.  Lapelle  had  gorte  back  on  him, 
had  betrayed  him  to  his  future  mother-in-law.  The 
fine  gentleman  had  no  further  use  for  him ;  Mrs.  Gwyn 
had  given  her  consent  to  the  marriage  and  in  return 
for  that  he  had  betrayed  a  loyal  friend!  And  now 
look  at  the  position  he  was  in,  all  through  Barry  La 
pelle.  Sheep  stealing  was  nothing  to  what  he  might 
have  to  face.  Even  though  Moll  had  done  the  killing, 
he  would  have  a  devil  of  a  time  convincing  a  jury  of 
the  fact.  More  than  likely,  Moll  would  up  and  deny 


288  VIOLA    GWYN 

that  she  had  anything  to  do  with  it, — and  then  what? 
It  would  be  like  the  ornery  slut  to  lie  out  of  it  and  let 
'em  hang  her  own  father,  just  to  pay  him  back  for  the 
lickings  he  had  given  her. 

All  this  raced  through  the  fast-steadying  brain  of 
Martin  Hawk  as  he  watched  his  accuser  pass  him  by 
without  a  look  and  stop  irresolutely  on  his  threshold 
to  stare  aghast  at  what  lay  beyond.  It  became  a  con 
viction,  rather  than  a  conjecture.  Barry  had  set  the 
dogs  upon  him!  Snake!  Well, — just  let  him  get  loose 
from  these  plagued  hounds  for  half  an  hour  or  so  and, 
by  glory,  they'd  have  something  to  hang  him  for  or 
his  name  wasn't  Martin  Hawk. 

Isaac  Stain  did  not  move  from  the  spot  where  she 
had  left  him,  over  at  the  edge  of  the  clearing.  His 
rifle  was  ready,  his  keen  eyes  alert.  Rachel  Carter 
entered  the  hut.  Many  minutes  passed.  Then  she 
came  to  the  door  and  beckoned  to  him. 

"It  is  Simon  Braley,"  she  said  quietly.  "He  is  dead. 
The  girl  killed  him,  Isaac.  Will  you  ride  over  to  my 
farm  and  have  Allen  come  over  here  with  a  wagon? 
They're  going  to  take  the  body  up  to  town, — and  the 
girl,  too." 

Stain  stood  his  rifle  against  the  wall  of  the  hut. 
"I  guess  I  won't  need  this,"  was  all  he  said  as  he  turned 
and  strode  away. 

The  man  called  Jasper  Suggs  lay  in  front  of  the 
tumble-down  fireplace,  his  long  body  twisted  gro 
tesquely  by  the  final  spasm  of  pain  that  carried  him 
off.  The  lower  part  of  his  body  was  covered  by  a 
filthy  strip  of  rag  carpet  which  some  one  had  hastily 
thrown  over  him  as  Rachel  Carter  was  on  the  point 
of  entering  the  house.  His  coarse  linsey  shirt  was 
soaked  with  blood,  now  dry  and  almost  black.  The 


AFFAIR    AT    HAWK'S    CABIN     289 

harsh  light  from  the  open  door  struck  full  upon  his 
bearded  face  and  its  staring  eyes. 

In  a  corner,  at  the  foot  of  a  straw  pallet,  ordinarily 
screened  from  the  rest  of  the  cabin  by  a  couple  of  sus 
pended  quilts,  stood  Moll  Hawk,  leaning  against  the 
wall,  her  dark  sullen  eyes  following  the  men  as  they 
moved  about  the  room.  The  quilts,  ruthlessly  torn 
from  their  fastenings  on  the  pole,  lay  scattered  and 
trampled  on  the  floor,  sinister  evidence  of  the  struggle 
that  had  taken  place  between  woman  and  beast.  At 
the  other  end  of  the  room  were  two  similar  pallets,  un 
screened,  and  beside  one  of  these  lay  Jasper  Suggs* 
rawhide  boots. 

From  her  place  in  the  shadows  Moll  Hawk  watched 
the  other  woman  stoop  over  and  gaze  intently  at  the 
face  of  the  slain  man.  She  was  a  tall,  well-developed 
girl  of  twenty  or  thereabouts.  Her  long,  straight  hair, 
the  colour  of  the  raven's  wing,  swung  loose  about  her 
shoulders,  an  occasional  strand  trailing  across  her 
face,  giving  her  a  singularly  witchlike  appearance. 
Her  body  from  the  waist  up  was  stripped  almost  bare ; 
there  were  several  long  streaks  of  blood  across  her 
breast,  where  the  fingers  of  a  gory  hand  had  slid  in 
relaxing  their  grip  on  her  shoulder.  With  one  hand 
she  clutched  what  was  left  of  a  tattered  garment, 
vainly  seeking  to  hide  her  naked  breasts.  The  stout, 
coarse  dress  had  been  almost  torn  from  her  body. 

Mrs.  Gwyn  left  the  hut  but  soon  returned.  After  a 
few  earnest  words  with  the  sheriff,  she  came  slowly 
over  to  the  girl.  Moll  shrank  back  against  the  wall, 
a  strange  glitter  leaping  into  her  sullen,  lifeless 
eyes. 

"I  don't  want  nobody  prayin'  over  me,"  she  said 
huskily.  "I  jest  want  to  be  let  alone." 


290  VIOLA    GWYN 

"I  am  not  going  to  pray  over  you,  my  girl.  I  want 
you  to  come  out  in  the  back  yard  with  me,  where  I  can 
wash  the  blood  off  of  you  and  put  something  around 
you." 

"What's  the  use'n  that?  They're  goin'  to  take  me 
to  jail,  ain't  they?" 

"Have  you  another  frock  to  put  on,  Moll?" 

The  girl  looked  down  at  her  torn,  disordered  dress, 
a  sneering  smile  on  her  lips. 

"This  is  all  I  got, — an'  now  look  at  it.  I  ain't  had 
a  new  dress  in  God  knows  how  long.  Pap  ain't  much 
on  dressin'  me  up.  Mr.  Lapelle  he  promised  me  a  new 
dress  but — say,  who  air  you?" 

"I  am  Mrs.  Gwyn,  Moll." 

t'I  might  ha'  knowed  it.  You're  her  ma,  huh?  Well, 
I  guess  you'd  better  go  on  away  an'  let  me  alone.  I 
ain't  axin'  no  favours  off'n — " 

"I  am  not  trying  to  do  you  a  favour.  I  am  only 
trying  to  make  you  a  little  more  presentable.  You 
are  going  up  to  town,  Moll." 

"Yes, — I  guess  that's  so.  Can't  they  hang  me  here 
an'  have  it  over?"  A  look  of  terror  gleamed  in  her 
eyes,  but  there  was  no  flinching  of  the  body,  no  tremor 
in  her  voice. 

The  sheriff  came  over.  "Better  let  Mrs.  Gwyn  fix 
you  up  a  little,  Moll.  She's  a  good,  kind  lady  and 
she'll—" 

"I  don't  want  to  go  to  town,"  whimpered  the  girl, 
covering  her  face  with  her  hands.  "I  don't  want  to  be 
hutfg.  I  jest  had  to  do  it, — I  jest  had  to.  There  wuz 
no  other  way, — 'cept  to — 'cept  to — an'  I  jest  couldn't 
do  that.  Now  I  wish  I  had, — oh,  Lordy,  how  I  wish 
I  had !  That  wuz  bad  enough,  but  hangin's  wuss.  He 
wuz  goin'  away  in  a  day  or  two,  anyhow,  so — " 


AFFAIR    AT    HAWK'S-   CABIN     291 

"You're  not  going-  to  be  hung,  Moll,"  broke  in  the 
sheriff.  "Don't  you  worry  about  that.  We  don't 
hang  women  for  killing  men  like  that  feller  over  there. 
Like  as  not  you'll  be  set  free  in  no  time  at  all.  All 
you've  got  to  do  is  to  tell  the  truth  about  how  it  hap 
pened  and  that'll  be  all  there  is  to  it." 

"You're  lyin*  to  me,  jest  to  git  me  to  go  along" 
quiet,"  she  quavered,  but  there  was  a  new  light  in  her 
eyes. 

"I'm  not  lying.  You  will  have  to  stand  trial,  of 
course, — you  understand  that,  don't  you? — but  there 
isn't  a  jury  on  earth  that  would  hang  you.  We  don't 
do  that  kind  of  thing  to  women.  Now  you  go  along 
with  Mrs.  Gwyn  and  do  what  she  says, — and  you  can 
tell  me  all  about  this  after  a  while." 

"I'll  wash,  but  I  hain't  got  no  more  clothes,"  mut 
tered  the  girl. 

"We  will  manage  somehow,"  said  Mrs.  Gwyn.  "One 
of  the  men  will  give  you  a  coat, — or  you  may  have  my 
cape  to  wear,  Moll." 

Moll  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  Again  she  said  the 
unexpected  thing.  "Why,  ever'body  says  you  air  a 
mighty  onfeelin'  woman,  Mis'  Gwyn.  I  can't  believe 
you'd  let  me  take  your  cape." 

"You  will  see,  my  girl.  Come!  Show  me  where  to 
find  water  and  a  comb  and — " 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  Moll  abruptly.  "Somehow  I 
ain't  as  skeert  as  I  wuz.  You're  shore  they  won't  hang 
me?  'Ca'se  I'd  hate  to  be  hung, — I'd  hate  to  die  that- 
away,  Mister." 

"They  won't  hang  you,  Moll, — take  my  word  for 
it." 

"Well,  then,"  said  she,  bringing  forward  the  hand 
she  had  been  holding  behind  her  back  all  the  time; 


292  VIOLA    GWYN 

"here's  the  knife  I  done  it  with.  It's  his'n.  He  was 
braggin'  last  night  about  how  many  gullets  he  had  slit 
with  it, — I  mean  men's  gullets.  I  wuz  jest  sort  o' 
hangin'  onto  it  in  case  I — but  I  don't  believe  I  ever 
could  a'  done  it.  'Tain't  'ca'se  I'm  afeared  to  die  but 
they  say  a  person  that  takes  his  own  life  is  shore  to  go 
to  hell — 'ca'se  he  don't  git  no  chance  fer  to  repent. 
Take  it,  Mister." 

She  handed  the  big  sheath-knife  to  the  sheriff.  Then 
she  followed  Rachel  Carter  out  of  the  hut,  apparently 
unconscious  of  the  curious  eyes  that  followed  her.  She 
passed  close  by  the  corpse.  She  looked  down  at  the 
ghastly  face  and  twisted  body  without  the  slightest 
trace  of  emotion, — neither  dread  nor  repugnance  nor 
interest  beyond  a  curious  narrowing  of  the  eyes  as  of 
one  searching  for  some  sign  of  trickery  on  the  part  of  a 
wily  adversary.  On  the  way  out  she  stopped  to  pick 
up  a  wretched,  almost  toothless  comb  and  some  dish- 
rags. 

"I  guess  we  better  go  down  to  the  river,"  she  said 
as  they  stepped  out  into  the  open.  "  'Tain't  very  fer, 
Mrs.  Gwyn, — an'  the  water's  cleaner.  Hain't  no  dan 
ger  of  me  tryin'  to  git  away,"  she  went  on,  with  a  feeble 
grin  as  her  eyes  swept  the  little  clearing,  revealing 
armed  men  in  all  directions.  Her  gaze  rested  for  a 
moment  on  Martin  Hawk,  who  was  staring  at  her  from 
his  seat  on  a  stump  hard  by. 

"There's  my  pap  over  yonder,"  she  said,  with  a 
scowl.  "He's  the  one  that  ort  to  be  strung  up  fer  all 
this.  He  didn't  do  it, — but  he's  to  blame,  just  the 
same.  They  ain't  got  him  'rested  fer  doin*  it,  have 
they?  'Ca'se  he  didn't.  He'll  tell  you  he's  as  innocent 
as  a  unborn  child, — he  allus  does, — an'  he  is  as  fer 
as  the  killin'  goes.  But  ef  he'd  done  what  wuz  right 


AFFAIR    AT    HAWK'S    CABIN     293 

hit  never  would  'a*  happened.  Thet's  whut  I  got 
ag'inst  him." 

Rachel  Carter  was  looking  at  the  strange  creature 
with  an  interest  not  far  removed  from  pity.  Despite 
the  sullen,  hang-dog  expression  she  was  a  rather  hand 
some  girl;  wild,  untutored,  almost  untamed  she  was, 
and  yet  not  without  a  certain  diffidence  that  bespoke 
better  qualities  than  appeared  on  the  surface.  She  was 
tall  and  strongly  built,  with  the  long,  swinging  stride  of 
the  unhampered  woodswoman.  Her  young  shoulders 
and  back  were  bent  with  the  toil  and  drudgery  of  the 
life  she  led.  Her  eyes,  in  which  lurked  a  never-absent 
gleam  of  pain,  were  dark,  smouldering,  deep  set  and 
so  restless  that  one  could  not  think  of  them  as  ever 
being  closed  in  sleep. 

The  girl  led  the  way  down  a  narrow  path  to  a  little 
sand-bar. 

"I  go  in  swimmin'  here  every  day,  'cept  when  it's 
froze  over,"  she  volunteered  dully.  "Hain't  you  skeert 
at  the  sight  o'  blood,  ma'am?  Some  people  air.  We 
wuz  figgerin'  on  whuther  we'd  dig  a  grave  fer  him  or 
jest  pull  out  yonder  into  the  current  an'  drop  him 
over.  Pap  said  we  had  to  git  rid  of  him  'fore  anybody 
come  around.  'Nen  the  dogs  begin  to  bark  an'  he 
thought  mebby  it  wuz  Mr.  Lapelle,  so  he — say,  you 
mustn't  get  Mr.  Lapelle  mixed  up  in  this.  He — " 

"I  know  all  about  Mr.  Lapelle,  Moll,"  interrupted 
the  older  woman. 

The  girl  gave  her  a  sharp,  almost  hostile  look. 
"Then  you  hain't  goin'  to  let  him  have  your  girl,  air 
you?" 

Mrs.  Gwyn  shook  her  head.  "No,  Moll, — I  am  not," 
she  said. 

"You  set  here  on  this  log,"  ordered  the  girl  as  they 


294  VIOLA    GWYN 

came  down  to  the  water's  edge.  "I'll  do  my  own 
washin'.  I'm  kind  o'  'shamed  to  have  any  one  see  me 
as  naked  as  this.  There  ain't  much  left  of  my  dress,  is 
they?  We  fit  fer  I  don't  know  how  long,  like  a  couple 
o'  dogs.  You  c'n  see  the  black  an'  blue  places  on  my 
arms  out  here  in  the  daylight, — an*  I  guess  his  finger 
marks  must  be  on  my  neck,  where  he  wuz  chokin*  me.  I 
wuz  tryin'  to  wrassle  around  till  I  could  git  nigh  to  the 
table,  where  his  knife  wuz  stickin'.  My  eyes  wuz  pop- 
pin'  right  out'n  my  head  when  I — " 

"For  heaven's  sake,  girl!"  cried  Rachel  Carter. 
"Don't !  Don't  tell  me  any  more !  I  can't  bear  to  hear 
you  talk  about  it." 

Moll  stared  at  her  for  a  moment  as  if  bewildered, 
and  then  suddenly  turned  away,  her  chin  quivering 
with  mortification.  She  had  been  reprimanded! 

For  several  minutes  Rachel  stood  in  silence,  watch 
ing  her  as  she  washed  the  blood  from  her  naked  breast 
and  shoulders.  Presently  the  girl  turned  toward  her, 
as  if  for  inspection. 

"I'm  sorry,  ma'am,  if  I,  talked  too  much,"  she 
mumbled  awkwardly.  "I'd  ort  to  have  knowed  better. 
Is— is  it  all  off?" 

"I  think  so,"  said  Rachel,  pulling  herself  together 
with  an  effort.  "Let  me — " 

"No,  I'll  finish  it,"  said  the  girl  stubbornly.  She 
dried  her  brown,  muscular  arms,  rubbed  her  body  vigor 
ously  with  one  of  the  rags  and  then  began  to  comb  out 
her  long,  tangled  hair, — not  gently  but  with  a  sort 
of  relentless  energy.  Swiftly,  deftly  she  plaited  it  into 
two  long  braids,  which  she  left  hanging  down  in  front 
of  her  shoulders,  squaw  fashion. 

"How  long  had  you  known  this  man  Suggs,  Moll?" 
suddenly  inquired  the  other  woman. 


AFFAIR    AT    HAWK'S    CABIN     295 

"Off  an'  on  ever  sence  I  kin  remember,"  replied 
the  girl.  "Pap  knowed  him  down  south.  We  hain't 
seed  much  of  him  fer  quite  a  spell.  Four — five  year, 
I  guess  mebby.  He  come  here  last  week  one  day." 

The  eyes  of  the  two  women  met.  Moll  broke  the 
short  silence  that  ensued.  She  glanced  over  her  shoul 
der.  The  nearest  man  was  well  out  of  earshot.  Still 
she  lowered  her  voice. 

"He  claims  he  use  ter  know  you  a  long  time  ago," 
she  said. 

"Yes?" 

"Mebby  you'd  recollect  him  ef  I  tole  you  his  right 
name." 

"His  name  was  Simon  Braley,"  said  Rachel  Carter 
calmly. 

Moll's  eyes  narrowed.    "Then  what  he  sez  wuz  true?" 

"I  don't  know  what  he  said  to  you,  Moll." 

"He  sez  you  run  off  with  some  other  woman's  hus 
band,"  replied  Moll  bluntly. 

"Did  he  tell  this  to  any  one  except  you  and  your 
father?" 

"He  didn't  tell  no  one  but  me,  fer  as  I  know.  He 
didn't  tell  Pap." 

"When  did  he  tell  you?" 

"Las'  night,"  said  Moll,  suddenly  dropping  her  eyes. 
"He  wuz  drinkin', — an*  I  thought  mebby  he  wuz  lyin'." 

"You  are  sure  he  did  not  tell  your  father?" 

"I'm  purty  shore  he  didn't." 

"Why  did  he  tell  you?" 

The  girl  raised  her  eyes.  There  was  a  deeper  look 
of  pain  in  them  now.  "I'd  ruther  not  tell,"  she  mut 
tered. 

"You  need  not  be  afraid." 

"Well,  he  wuz  arguin'  with  me.    He  said  there  wuzn't 


296  VIOLA    GWYN 

any  good  women  in  the  world.  'Why,'  sez  he,  'I  seen 
a  woman  this  very  day  that  everybody  thinks  is  as 
good  as  the  angels  up  in  heaven,  but  when  I  tell 
you  whut  I  know  about  her  you'll — ' ; 

"You  need  not  go  on,"  interrupted  Rachel  Carter, 
drawing  her  brows  together.  "Would  you  believe  me 
if  I  told  you  the  man  lied,  Moll  Hawk?" 

"Yes,  ma'am, — I  would,"  said  the  girl  promptly. 
"Per  as  that  goes,  I  tole  him  he  lied." 

Rachel  started  to  say  something,  then  closed  her 
lips  tightly  and  fell  to  staring  out  over  the  river.  The 
girl  eyed  her  for  a  moment  and  then  went  on: 

"You  needn't  be  skeert  of  me  ever  tellin'  anybody 
whut  he  said  to  me.  Hit  wouldn't  be  right  to  spread 
a  lie  like  thet,  Mis'  Gwyn.  You — " 

"I  think  they  are  waiting  for  us,  Moll,"  interrupted 
Rachel,  suddenly  holding  out  her  hand  to  the  girl. 
"Thank  you.  Come,  give  me  your  hand.  We  will  go 
back  to  them,  hand  in  hand,  my  girl." 

Moll  stared  at  her  in  sheer  astonishment. 

"You — you  don't  want  to  hold  my  hand  in  yours,  do 
you?"  she  murmured  slowly,  incredulously. 

"I  do.  You  will  find  me  a  good  friend, — and  you 
will  need  good  friends,  Moll." 

Dumbly  the  girl  held  out  her  hand.  It  was  clasped 
firmly  by  Rachel  Carter.  They  were  half-way  up 
the  bank  when  Moll  held  back  and  tried  to  withdraw 
her  hand. 

"I — I  can't  let  you, — why,  ma'am,  that's  the  hand  I 
— I  held  the  knife  in,"  she  cried,  agitatedly. 

Rachel  gripped  the  hand  more  firmly.  "I  know  it 
is,  Moll,"  she  said  calmly. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE    PRISONERS 

THE  grewsome  cavalcade  wended  its  way  town- 
ward.  Moll  Hawk  sat  between  the  sheriff  and 
Cyrus  Allen  on  the  springless  board  that  served 
as  a  seat  atop  the  lofty  sideboards  of  the  wagon.  The 
crude  wooden  wheels  rumbled  and  creaked  and  jarred 
along  the  deep-rutted  road,  jouncing  the  occupants  of 
the  vehicle  from  side  to  side  with  unseemly  playfulness. 
Back  in  the  bed  of  the  wagon,  under  a  gaily  coloured 
Indian  blanket,  lay  the  outstretched  body  of  Jasper 
Suggs,  seemingly  alive  and  responsive  to  the  jolts  and 
twists  and  turns  of  the  road.  The  rear  end  gate  had 
been  removed  and  three  men  sat  with  their  heels  dan 
gling  outside,  their  backs  to  the  sinister,  unnoticed 
traveller  who  shared  accommodations  with  them.  The 
central  figure  was  Martin  Hawk,  grim,  saturnine,  silent, 
his  feet  and  hands  secured  with  leather  thongs.  Trot 
ting  along  under  his  heels,  so  to  speak,  were  his  three 
dogs, — their  tongues  hanging  out,  their  tails  drooping, 
their  eyes  turning  neither  to  right  nor  left.  They 
were  his  only  friends. 

Some  distance  behind  rode  three  horsemen,  leading 
as  many  riderless  steeds.  On  ahead  was  another  group 
of  riders.  Rachel  Carter  rode  alongside  the  wagon. 

Moll  had  firmly  refused  to  wear  the  older  woman's 
cape.  She  had  on  a  coat  belonging  to  one  of  the  men 
and  wore  a  flimsj,  deep-hooded  bonnet  that  once  had 

297 


298  VIOLA    GWYN 

bee~  azure  blue.  Her  shoulders  sagged  wearily,  her 
back  was  bent,  her  arms  lay  limply  upon  her  knees. 
She  was  staring  bleakly  before  her  over  the  horses' 
ears,  at  the  road  ahead.  The  reaction  had  come.  She 
had  told  the  story  of  the  night,  haltingly  but  with  a 
graphic  integrity  that  left  nothing  to  be  desired. 

Martin  Hawk  had  spent  a  black  and  unhappy  hour. 
He  was  obliged  to  listen  to  his  daughter's  story  and, 
much  to  his  discontent,  was  not  permitted  to  contradict 
her  in  any  particular.  Two  or  three  mournful  attempts 
to  reproach  her  for  lying  about  her  own, — and,  he 
always  added,  her  only — father,  met  with  increasingly 
violent  adjurations  to  "shut  up,"  the  last  one  being  so 
emphatic  that  he  gave  vent  to  a  sharp  howl  of  pain  and 
began  feeling  with  his  tongue  to  see  if  all  his  teeth 
were  there. 

Luckily  for  him,  he  was  impervious  to  the  scorn  of 
his  fellow-man,  else  he  would  have  shrivelled  under 
the  looks  he  received  from  time  to  time.  Especially 
distressing  to  him  was  that  part  of  her  recital  touch 
ing  upon  his  unholy  greed;  he  could  not  help  feeling, 
with  deep  parental  bitterness,  that  no  man  alive  ever 
had  a  more  heartless,  undutiful  daughter  than  he, — a 
conviction  that  for  the  time  being  at  least  caused  him 
to  lament  the  countless  opportunities  he  had  had  to 
beat  her  to  death  instead  of  merely  raising  a  few  perish 
able  welts  on  her  back.  If  he  had  done  that,  say  a 
month  ago,  how  different  everything  would  be  now! 

This  part  of  her  story  may  suffice: 

"Pap  never  wanted  anything  so  bad  in  all  his  life 
as  that  powder  horn  an'  shot  flask.  They  wuz  all 
fixed  up  with  gold  an'  silver  trimmin's  an'  I  guess 
there  wuz  rubies  an'  di'monds  too.  Fer  three  days 
Pap  dickered  with  him,  tryin'  to  make  some  kind  of  a 


THE    PRISONERS  299 

swap.  Jasper  he  wouldn't  trade  'em  er  sell  'em  nuther. 
He  said  they  wuz  wuth  more'n  a  thousand  dollars. 
Some  big  Injun  Chief  made  him  a  present  of  'em,  years 
ago, — fer  savin'  his  life,  he  said.  First  Pap  tried  to 
swap  his  hounds  fer  'em,  'nen  said  he'd  throw  in  one 
of  the  hosses.  Jasper  he  jest  laughed  at  him.  Yester 
day  I  heerd  Pap  tell  him  he  would  swap  him  both 
hosses,  seven  hogs,  the  wagon  an'  two  boats,  but  Jasper 
he  jest  laughed.  They  wuz  still  talkin'  about  it  when 
they  got  home  from  town  last  night,  jest  ahead  of  the 
storm.  I  could  hear  'em  arguin*  out  in  the  room.  They 
wuz  drinkin'  an'  talkin'  so  loud  I  couldn't  sleep. 

"Purty  soon  Pap  said  he'd  trade  him  our  cabin  an' 
ever'thing  else  fer  that  pouch  an'  flask.  It  wuz  rainin' 
so  hard  by  this  time  I  couldn't  hear  all  they  said  but 
when  it  slacked  up  a  little  I  cotch  my  own  name.  They 
wuz  talkin'  about  me.  I  heerd  Jasper  tell  Pap  he'd 
give  him  the  things  ef  he'd  promise  to  go  away  an' 
leave  him  an'  me  alone  in  the  cabin.  That  kind  o'  sur 
prised  me.  But  all  Pap  sez  wuz  that  he  hated  to 
go  out  in  the  rain.  So  Jasper  he  said  fer  him  to  wait 
till  hit  stopped  rainin'.  Pap  said  all  right,  he  would, 
an'  fer  Jasper  to  hand  over  the  pouch  and  flask. 
Jasper  cussed  an'  said  he'd  give  'em  to  him  three  hours 
after  sunrise  the  nex'  morning'  an'  not  a  minute  sooner, 
an'  he  wuz  to  stay  away  from  the  house  all  that  time 
or  he  wouldn't  give  'em  to  him  at  all.  Well,  they 
argued  fer  some  time  about  that  an'  finally  Pap  said 
he'd  go  out  to  the  hoss  shed  an'  sleep  if  Jasper  would 
hand  over  the  shot  pouch  then  an'  there  an'  hold  back 
the  powder  flask  till  mornin'.  Jasper  he  said  all  right, 
he  would.  I  never  guess  what  wuz  back  of  all  this.  So 
when  Pap  went  out  an'  shut  the  door  behind  him,  I 
wuz  kind  o'  thankful,  ca'se  all  the  arguin'  an'  jawin' 


300  VIOLA    GWYN 

would  stop  an'  I  could  go  to  sleep  ag'in.     Jasper  he 
let  down  the  bolt  inside  the  door." 

It  was  after  eight  o'clock  when  the  wagon  and  its 
escort  entered  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  Grim,  imper 
turbable  old  dames  sitting  on  their  porches  smoking 
their  clay  or  corncob  pipes  regarded  the  strange  pro 
cession  with  mild  curiosity ;  toilers  in  gardens  and  barn 
yards  merely  remarked  to  themselves  that  "some'pin 
must'a  happened  some'eres"  and  called  out  to  house 
wife  or  offspring  not  to  let  them  forget  to  "mosey  up 
to  the  square"  later  in  the  day  for  particulars,  if  any. 
The  presence  of  the  sheriff  was  more  or  less  informing ; 
it  was  obvious  even  to  the  least  sprightly  intelligence 
that  somebody  had  been  arrested.  But  the  appearance 
of  Mrs.  Gwyn  on  horseback,  riding  slowly  beside  the 
wagon,  was  not  so  easily  accounted  for.  That  circum 
stance  alone  made  it  absolutely  worth  while  to  "mosey 
up  to  the  square"  a  little  later  on. 

Martin  Hawk  was  lodged  in  the  recently  completed 
brick  jail  adjoining  the  courthouse.  He  complained 
bitterly  of  the  injustice  that  permitted  his  daughter, 
a  confessed  murderess,  to  enjoy  the  hospitality  of  the 
sheriff's  home  whilst  he,  accused  of  nothing  more  hein 
ous  than  sheep-stealing,  was  flung  into  jail  and  sub 
jected  to  the  further  indignity  of  being  audibly  de 
scribed  as  a  fit  subject  for  the  whipping  post,  an  insti 
tution  that  still  prevailed  despite  a  general  movement 
to  abolish  it  throughout  the  state. 

It  galled  him  to  hear  the  fuss  that  was  being  made 
over  Moll.  Everybody  seemed  to  be  taking  her  part. 
Why,  that  Gwyn  woman  not  only  went  so  far  as  to 
say  she  would  be  responsible  for  Moll's  appearance  in 
court,  but  actually  arranged  to  buy  her  a  lot  of  new 


THE    PRISONERS  301 

clothes.  And  the  sheriff  patted  her  on  the  shoulder 
and  loudly  declared  that  the  only  thing  any  judge 
or  jury  could  possibly  find  her  guilty  of  was  criminal 
negligence  in  only  half -doing  the  job.  This  was  sup 
plemented  by  a  look  that  left  no  doubt  in  Martin's 
mind  as  to  just  what  he  considered  to  be  the  neglected 
part  of  the  job. 

He  bethought  himself  of  the  one  powerful  friend 
he  had  in  town, — Barry  Lapelle.  So  he  sent  this  mes 
sage  by  word  of  mouth  to  the  suspected  dandy: 

"I'm  in  jail.  I  want  you  to  come  and  see  me  right 
off.  I  mean  business." 

Needless  to  say,  this  message, — conveying  a  far 
from  subtle  threat, — was  a  long  time  in  reaching  Mr. 
Lapelle,  who  had  gone  into  temporary  retirement  at 
Jack  Trentman's  shanty,  having  arrived  at  that  unsa 
voury  retreat  by  a  roundabout,  circuitous  route  which 
allowed  him  to  spend  some  time  on  the  bank  of  a  se 
questered  brook. 

Meanwhile  Rachel  Carter  approached  her  own  home, 
afoot  and  weary.  As  she  turned  the  bend  she  was 
surprised  and  not  a  little  disturbed  by  the  sight  of 
Kenneth  Gwynne  standing  at  her  front  gate.  He 
hurried  up  the  road  to  meet  her. 

"The  worst  has  come  to  pass,"  he  announced,  stop 
ping  in  front  of  her.  "Before  you  go  in  I  must  tell 
you  just  what  happened  here  this  morning.  Come  in 
here  among  the  trees  where  we  can't  be  seen  from 
the  house." 

She  listened  impassively  to  his  story.  Only  the 
expression  in  her  steady,  unswerving  eyes  betrayed 
her  inward  concern  and  agitation.  Not  once  did  she 
interrupt  him.  Her  shoulders,  he  observed,  drooped 
a  little  and  her  arms  hung  limply  at  her  side,  mute 


302  VIOLA    GWYN 

evidence  of  a  sinking  heart  and  the  resignation  that 
comes  with  defeat. 

"I  am  ready  and  willing,"  he  assured  her  at  the  end, 
"to  do  anything,  to  say  anything  you  wish.  It  is  pos 
sible  for  us  to  convince  her  that  there  is  no  truth  in 
what  he  said.  We  can  lie — " 

She  held  up  her  hand,  shaking  her  head  almost  an 
grily.  "No!  Not  that,  Kenneth.  I  cannot  permit 
you  to  lie  for  me.  That  would  be  unspeakable.  I  am 
not  wholly  without  honour.  There  is  nothing  you  can 
do  for  her, — for  either  of  us  at  present.  Thank  you 
for  preparing  me, — and  for  your  offer,  Kenneth.  Stay 
away  from  us  until  you  have  had  time  to  think  it  all 
over.  Then  you  will  realize  that  this  generous  impulse 
of  yours  would  do  more  harm  than  good.  Let  her 
think  what  she  will  of  me,  she  must  not  lose  her  faith 
in  you,  my  boy." 

"But — what  of  her?"  he  expostulated.  "What  are 
you  going  to  say  to  her  when  she  asks  you — " 

"I  don't  know,"  she  interrupted,  lifelessly.  "I  am 
not  a  good  liar,  Kenneth  Gwynne.  Whatever  else  you 
may  say  or  think  of  me,  I — I  have  never  wilfully  lied." 

She  started  away,  but  after  a  few  steps  turned 
back  to  him.  "Jasper  Suggs  is  dead.  Moll  Hawk 
killed  him  last  night.  She  has  been  arrested.  There 
is  nothing  you  can  do  for  Viola  at  present,  but  you 
may  be  able  to  help  that  poor,  unfortunate  girl.  Suggs 
told  her  about  me.  She  will  keep  the  secret.  Go  and 
see  the  sheriff  at  once.  He  will  tell  you  all  that  has 
happened." 

Then  she  strode  off  without  another  word.  He 
watched  the  tall,  black  figure  until  it  turned  in  at  the 
gate  and  was  lost  to  view,  a  sort  of  stupefaction 
gripping  him.  Presently  he  aroused  himself  and  walked 


THE    PRISONERS  303 

i 

slowly  homeward.  As  he  passed  through  his  own  gate 
he  looked  over  at  the  window  of  the  room  in  which 
Viola  had  sought  seclusion.  The  curtains  hung  limp 
and  motionless.  He  wondered  what  was  taking  place 
inside  the  four  walls  of  that  room. 

Out  of  the  maze  into  which  his  thoughts  had  been 
plunged  by  the  swift  procession  of  events  groped 
the  new  and  disturbing  turn  in  the  affairs  of  Rachel 
Carter.  What  was  back  of  the  untold  story  of  the 
slaying  of  Jasper  Suggs?  What  were  the  circum 
stances?  Why  had  Moll  Hawk  killed  the  man?  Had 
Rachel  Carter  figured  directly  or  indirectly  in  the 
tragedy?  He  recalled  her  significant  allusion  to  Isaac 
Stain  the  night  before  and  his  own  rather  startling  in 
ference, — and  now  she  was  asking  him  to  help  Moll 
Hawk  in  her  hour  of  tribulation.  A  cold  perspiration 
started  out  all  over  him.  The  question  persisted: 
What  was  back  of  the  slaying  of  Jasper  Suggs? 

He  gave  explicit  and  peremptory  directions  to 
Zachariah  in  case  Mrs.  Gwyn  asked  for  him,  and  then 
set  out  briskly  for  the  courthouse. 

By  this  time  the  news  of  the  murder  had  spread  over 
the  town.  A  crowd  had  gathered  in  front  of  Scudder's 
undertaking  establishment.  Knots  of  men  and  women, 
disregarding  traffic,  stood  in  the  streets  adjoining  the 
public  square,  listening  to  some  qualified  narrator's 
account  of  the  night's  expedition  and  the  tragedy  at 
Martin  Hawk's. 

Kenneth  hurried  past  these  crowds  and  made  his  way 
straight  to  the  office  of  the  sheriff.  Farther  down 
the  street  a  group  of  people  stood  in  front  of  the 
sheriff's  house,  while  in  the  vicinity  of  the  little  jail 
an  ever-increasing  mob  was  collecting. 

"Judge"  Billings  espied  him.     Disengaging  himself 


304  VIOLA    GWYN 

from  a  group  of  men  at  the  corner  of  the  square, 
the  defendant  in  the  case  of  Kenwright  vs.  Billings 
made  a  bee-line  for  his  young  attorney. 

"I've  been  over  to  your  office  twice,  young  man," 
he  announced  as  he  came  up.  "Where  the  devil  have 
you  been  keepin*  yourself?  Mrs.  Gwyn  left  word  for 
you  to  come  right  up  to  her  house.  She  wants  you 
to  take  charge  of  the  Hawk  girl's  case.  Maybe  you 
don't  know  it,  but  you've  been  engaged  to  defend  her. 
You  better  make  tracks  up  to  Mrs.  Gwyn's  and — " 

"I  have  seen  Mrs.  Gwyn,"  interrupted  Kenneth. 
"She  sent  me  to  the  sheriff.  Where  is  he?" 

"Over  yonder  talkin'  to  that  crowd  in  front  of 
the  tavern.  He's  sort  o'  pickin'  out  a  jury  in  advance, 
— makin'  sure  that  the  right  men  get  on  it.  He  got 
me  for  one.  He  don't  make  any  bones  about  it.  Just 
tells  you  how  it  all  happened  an'  then  asks  you  whether 
you'd  be  such  a  skunk  as  to  even  think  of  convictin' 
the  girl  for  what  she  did.  Then  you  up  an'  blaspheme 
considerable  about  what  you'd  like  to  do  to  her  dod- 
gasted  father,  an'  before  you  git  anywhere's  near 
through,  he  holds  up  his  hand  an'  says,  'Now,  I've 
only  got  to  git  three  more  (or  whatever  it  is),  an'  then 
the  jury's  complete!'  We're  figgerin'  on  havin'  the 
trial  to-morrow  mornin*  between  nine  an*  ten  o'clock. 
The  judge  says  it's  all  right,  far  as  he's  concerned. 
We'd  have  it  to-day,  only  Moll's  got  to  have  a  new 
dress  an'  bonnet  an'  such-like  before  she  can  appear 
in  court.  All  you'll  have  to  do,  Kenny,  is  jest  to  set 
back, — look  wise  an'  let  her  tell  her  story.  'Cordin'  to 
law,  she's  got  to  stand  trial  fer  murder  an'  she's  got 
to  have  counsel.  Nobody's  goin'  to  object  to  you 
makin'  a  speech  to  the  jury, — bringin'  tears  to  our 
eyes,  as  the  sayin*  is, — only  don't  make  it  too  long. 


THE    PRISONERS  305 

I've  got  to  meet  a  man  at  half-past  ten  in  regards 
to  a  boss  trade,  an'  I  happen  to  know  that  Tom  Rank's 
clerk  is  sick  an'  he  don't  want  to  keep  his  store  locked 
up  fer  more  than  an  hour.  I'm  jest  tellin'  you  this  so's 
you  won't  have  to  waste  time  to-morrow  askin'  the 
jurymen  whether  they  have  formed  an  opinion  or  not, 
or  whether  they  feel  they  can  give  the  prisoner  a  fair 
an'  impartial  trial  or  not.  The  sheriff's  already  asked 
us  that  an'  we've  all  said  yes, — so  don't  delay  matters 
by  askin'  ridiculous  questions." 

The  "Judge"  interrupted  himself  to  look  at  his 
watch. 

"Well,  I've  got  to  be  movin'  along.  I'm  on  the  coro 
ner's  jury  too,  and  we're  goin'  up  to  Matt's  right 
away  to  view  the  remains.  The  verdict  will  probable 
be :  'Come  to  his  death  on  account  of  Moll  Hawk's  self- 
defense,'  or  somethin'  like  that.  'Never  put  off  till  to 
morrow  what  you  can  do  to-day/  as  the  sayin'  goes. 
Wouldn't  surprise  me  a  bit  if  he  was  buried  before 
three  o'clock  to-day.  Then  we  won't  have  him  on  our 
minds  to-morrow.  Well,  see  you  later — if  not  sooner." 

An  hour  later  Kenneth  accompanied  the  sheriff  to 
the  latter's  home  for  an  interview  with  his  client.  He 
had  promptly  consented  to  act  as  her  counsel  after 
hearing  the  story  of  the  crime  from  the  sheriff. 

"Mrs.  Gwyn  told  my  wife  to  go  out  and  get  some 
new  clothes  for  the  girl,"  said  the  sheriff  as  they  strode 
down  the  street,  "and  she'd  step  into  the  store  some 
time  to-day  and  settle  for  them.  By  thunder,  you 
could  have  knocked  me  over  with  a  feather,  Kenneth. 
If  your  stepmother  was  a  man  we'd  describe  her  as  a 
skinflint.  She's  as  stingy  and  unfeeling  as  they  make 
'em.  Hard  as  nails  and  about  as  kind-hearted  as  a 
tombstone.  What  other  woman  on  this  here  earth 


306  VIOLA    GWYN 

would  have  gone  out  to  Martin  Hawk's  last  night  just 
for  the  satisfaction  of  seein'  him  arrested?  We  didn't 
want  her, — not  by  a  long  shot, — but  she  made  up  her 
mind  to  go,  and,  by  gosh,  she  went.  I  guess  maybe  she 
thought  we'd  make  a  botch  of  it,  and  so  she  took  that 
long  ride  just  to  make  sure  she'd  git  her  money's  worth. 
'Cause,  you  see,  I  had  to  pay  each  of  the  men  a  dollar 
and  a  half  and  mileage  before  they'd  run  the  risk  of  bein' 
shot  by  Hawk  and  his  crowd.  Hard  as  nails,  I  said, 
but  doggone  it,  the  minute  she  saw  that  girl  out  there 
she  turned  as  soft  as  butter  and  there  is  nothin'  she 
won't  do  for  her.  It  beats  me,  by  gosh, — it  certainly 
beats  me." 

"Women  are  very  strange  creatures,"  observed 
Kenneth. 

"Yep,"  agreed  the  other.  "You  can  most  always 
tell  what  a  man's  goin'  to  do,  but  I'm  derned  if  you 
can  even  guess  what  a  woman's  up  to.  Take  my  wife, 
for  instance.  Why,  I've  been  livin'  with  that  woman 
for  seventeen  years  and  I  swear  to  Guinea  she's  still 
got  me  puzzled.  Course  I  know  what  she's  talking 
about  most  of  the  time,  but,  by  gosh,  I  never  know 
what  she's  thinkin'  about.  Women  are  like  cats.  A 
cat  is  the  thoughtfulest  animal  there  is.  It's  always 
thinkin'.  It  thinks  when  it's  asleep, — and  most  of  the 
time  when  you  think  it's  asleep  it  ain't  asleep  at  all. 
Well,  here  we  are.  I  guess  Moll's  out  in  the  kitchen 
with  my  wife.  I  told  Ma  to  roll  that  old  dress  of 
Moll's  up  and  save  it  for  the  jury  to  see.  It's  the 
best  bit  of  evidence  she's  got.  All  you'll  have  to  do  is 
to  hold  it  up  in  front  of  the  jury  and  start  your 
speech  somethin'  like  this:  'Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  I 
ask  you  to  gaze  upon  thi«v,here  dress,  all  tattered  and 


THE    PRISONERS  307 

torn, — '  and  that's  as  far  as  you'll  get,  'cause  this  jury 
is  goin'  to  be  composed  of  gentlemen  and  they'll  prob 
ably  stand  up  right  then  and  there  and  say  'Not  guilty.' 
Come  right  in,  Mr.  Gwynne." 

After  considerable  persuasion  on  the  part  of  the 
sheriff  and  his  kindly  wife,  Moll  repeated  her  story  to 
Gwynne.  She  was  abashed  before  this  elegant  young 
man.  A  shyness  and  confusion  that  had  been  totally 
lacking  in  her  manner  toward  the  other  and  older 
men  took  possession  of  her  now,  and  it  was  with  diffi 
culty  that  she  was  induced  to  give  him  the  complete 
details  of  all  that  took  place  in  her  father's  cabin. 

When  he  shook  hands  with  her  as  he  was  about  to 
take  his  departure,  she  suddenly  found  courage  to 
say: 

"Kin  I  see  you  alone  fer  a  couple  of  minutes,  Mr. 
Gwynne?" 

"Certainly,  Miss  Hawk,"  he  replied,  gravely  courte 
ous.  "I  am  sure  Mr.  and  Mrs. — " 

"Come  right  in  the  sitting-room,  Mr.  Gwynne,'*  in 
terrupted  the  housewife,  bustling  over  to  open  the  door. 

Moll  stared  blankly  at  her  counsel.  No  one  had  ever 
called  her  Miss  Hawk  before.  She  was  not  quite  sure 
that  she  had  heard  aright.  Could  it  be  possible  that 
this  grand  young  gentleman  had  called  her  Miss  Hawk? 
Still  wondering,  she  followed  him  out  of  the  kitchen, 
sublimely  unconscious  of  the  ridiculous  figure  she  cut 
in  the  garments  of  the  older  woman. 

"Shut  the  door,"  she  said,  as  her  keen,  wood-wary 
eyes  swept  the  room.  She  crossed  swiftly  to  the  win 
dow  and  looked  out.  Her  lips  curled  a  little.  "Most 
of  them  people  has  been  standin*  out  yonder  sence  nine 
o'clock,  tryin'  to  see  what  St.rt  of  lookin'  animile  I  am, 


308  VIOLA    GWYN 

Mr.  Gwynne.     Hain't  nobody  got  any  work  to  do?" 

"Vulgar  curiosity,  nothing  more,"  said  he,  joining 
her  at  the  window. 

"  'Tain't  ever*  day  they  get  a  chance  to  see  a  mur 
derer,  is  it?"  she  said,  lowering  her  head  suddenly  and 
putting  a  hand  to  her  quivering  chin.  For  the  first 
time  she  seemed  on  the  point  of  breaking  down. 

He  made  haste  to  exclaim,  "You  are  not  a  murderer. 
You  must  not  think  or  say  such  things,  Miss  Hawk." 

She  kept  her  head  down.  A  scarlet  wave  crept  over 
her  face.  "I — I  wish  you  wouldn't  call  me  that,  Mr. 
Gwynne.  Hit — hit  makes  me  feel  kind  o' — kind  o'  lone- 
some-like.  Jest  as — ef  I  didn't  have  no  friends.  Call 
me  Moll.  That's  all  I  am." 

He  studied  for  a  moment  the  half-averted  face  of 
this  girl  of  the  forest.  He  could  not  help  contrasting 
it  with  the  clear-cut,  delicate,  beautifully  modelled  face 
of  another  girl  of  the  dark  frontier, — Viola  Gwyn.  And 
out  of  this  swift  estimate  grew  a  new  pity  for  poor  Moll 
Hawk,  the  pity  one  feels  for  the  vanquished. 

"You  will  be  surprised  to  find  how  many  friends 
you  have,  Moll,"  he  said  gently. 

There  was  no  indication  that  she  was  impressed  one 
way  or  the  other  by  this  remark.  She  drew  back  from 
the  window  and  faced  him,  her  eyes  keen  and  searching. 

"Do  you  reckon  anybody  is  listenin'?"  she  asked. 

"I  think  not, — in  fact,  I  am  sure  we  are  quite  alone." 

"Well,  this  is  somethin'  I  don't  keer  to  have  the 
shurreff  know,  or  anybody  else,  Mr.  Gwynne.  Hit's 
about  Mr.  Lapelle." 

"Yes?"  he  said,  as  she  paused  warily. 

"Mrs.  Gwyn  she  tole  me  this  mornin'  that  whatever 
I  said  to  my  lawyer  would  be  sacred  an'  wouldn't  ever 
be  let  out  to  anybody,  no  matter  whut  it  wuz.  She 


THE    PRISONERS  309 

said  it  wuz  ag'inst  the  code  er  somethin'.  Wuz  she 
right?" 

"In  a  sense,  yes.  Of  course,  you  must  understand, 
Moll,  that  no  honest  lawyer  will  obligate  himself  to 
shield  a  criminal  or  a  fugitive  from  justice,  or — I  may 
as  well  say  to  you  now  that  if  you  expect  that  of  me 
I  must  warn  you  not  to  tell  me  anything.  You  would 
force  me  to  withdraw  as  your  counsel.  For,  you  see, 
Moll,  I  am  an  honest  lawyer." 

She  looked  at  him  in  a  sort  of  mute  wonder  for  a 
moment,  and  then  muttered :  "Why,  Pap, — Pap  he  sez 
there  ain't  no  setch  thing  as  a  honest  lawyer."  An 
embarrassed  little  smile  twisted  her  lips.  "I  guess  that 
must  ha'  been  one  of  Pap's  lies." 

"It  is  possible  he  may  never  have  come  in  contact 
with  one,"  he  observed  drily. 

"Well,  I  guess  ef  you're  a  honest  lawyer,"  she  said, 
knitting  her  brows,  "I'd  better  keep  my  mouth  shut. 
I  wuz  only  thinkin'  mebby  you  could  see  your  way  to 
do  somethin'  I  wuz  goin'  to  ask.  I  jest  wanted  to 
git  some  word  to  Mr.  Lapelle." 

"Mr.  Lapelle  and  I  are  not  friends,  Moll." 

"Is  it  beca'se  of  whut  I  asked  Ike  Stain  to  tell  ye?" 

"Partly." 

"I  mean  about  stealin'  Miss  Violy  Gwyn  an'  takin' 
her  away  with  him?" 

"I  want  to  thank  you,  Moll,  for  sending  me  the 
warning.  It  was  splendid  of  you." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  do  it  beca'se —  "  she  began,  somewhat 
defiantly,  and  then  closed  her  lips  tightly.  The  sullen 
look  came  back  into  her  eyes. 

"I  understand.     You — you  like  him  yourself." 

"Well,— whut  ef  I  do?"  she  burst  out.  "Hit's  my 
look-out,  ain't  it?" 


310  VIOLA    GWYN 

"Certainly.     I  am  not  blaming  you." 

"I  guess  there  ain't  no  use  talkin'  any  more,"  she 
said  flatly.  "You  wouldn't  do  whut  I  want  ye  to  do 
anyhow,  so  what's  the  sense  of  askin'  you.  We  better 
go  back  to  the  kitchen." 

"It  may  console  you  to  hear  that  I  have  already 
told  Mr.  Lapelle  that  he  must  get  out  of  this  town 
before  to-morrow  morning,"  said  he  deliberately.  "And 
stay  out!" 

She  leaned  forward,  her  face  brightening.  "You 
tole  him  to  git  away  to-night?"  she  half -whispered, 
eagerly.  "I  thought  you  said  you  wuzn't  a  friend  o* 
his'n." 

"That  is  what  I  said." 

"Then,  whut  did  you  warn  him  to  git  away  fer?" 

He  was  thinking  rapidly.  "I  did  it  on  account  of 
Miss  Gwyn,  Moll,"  he  replied,  evasively. 

"Do  you  think  he'll  go?"  she  asked,  a  fierce  note 
of  anxiety  in  her  voice. 

"That  remains  to  be  seen."  Then  he  hazarded:  "I 
think  he  will  when  he  finds  out  that  your  father  has 
been  arrested." 

"He's  been  a  good  friend  to  me,  Mr.  Gwynne,  Mr. 
Lapelle  has,"  said  she,  a  little  huskily.  She  waited  a 
moment  and  then  went  on  earnestly  and  with  a  gar- 
rulousness  that  amazed  him:  "I  don't  keer  whut  he's 
done  that  ain't  right,  er  whut  people  is  goin'  to  say 
about  him,  he's  allus  been  nice  to  me.  I  guess  mebby 
you  air  a-wonderin'  why  I  tole  Ike  Stain  about  him 
figgerin'  on  carryin'  Miss  Gwyn  away.  That  don't 
look  very  friendly,  I  guess.  Hit  wuzn't  beca'se  I 
thought  I  might  git  him  fer  myself  some  time, — no,  hit 
wuzn't  that,  Mr.  Gwynne.  I  ain't  setch  a  fool  as  to 
think  he  could  ever  want  to  be  sparkin'  me.  I  reckon 


THE    PRISONERS  311 

Ike  Stain  tole  ye  I  wuz  jealous.  Well,  I  wuzn't,  I  de 
clare  to  goodness  I  wuzn't.  Hit  wuz  beca'se  I  jest 
couldn't  'low  her  to  git  married  to  him,  knowin'  whut 
I  do.  I  wuz  tryin'  to  make  up  my  mind  to  go  an'  see 
her  some  time  an'  tell  her  not  to  marry  him,  but  I  jest 
couldn't  seem  to  git  the  spunk  to  do  it.  She  used 
to  come  to  see  me  when  I  wuz  sick  last  winter  an'  she 
wuz  mighty  nice  to  me. 

"First  thing  I  know,  him  an*  Pap  begin  to  fix  up 
this  plan  to  carry  her  off.  So  I  started  up  to  town 
to  tell  her.  I  got  as  fer  as  Ike's  when  I  figgered  I 
better  let  him  do  it,  him  bein'  a  man,  so  I  drapped  in 
at  his  cabin  an'  tole  him.  I  didn't  know  whut  else  to 
do.  I  had  to  stop  'em  from  doin'  it  somehow.  Hit 
wouldn't  do  no  good  fer  me  to  beg  Pap  to  drap  it, 
er  to  rare  up  on  my  hind-legs  an'  make  threats  ag'inst 
'em, — ca'se  they'd  soon  put  a  stop  to  that.  Course  I 
had  it  all  figgered  out  whut  I  wuz  goin'  to  do  when 
thet  pack  o'  rascals  got  caught  tryin'  to  steal  her, — • 
some  of  'em  shot,  like  as  not, — and  I  didn't  much  keer 
whuther  my  Pap  wuz  one  of  'em  er  not. 

"I  knowed  where  Mr.  Lapelle  wuz  to  meet  'em  down 
the  river  accrosst  from  Le  Grange,  so  I  was  figgerin* 
on  findin'  him  there  an'  tellin'  him  whut  had  happened 
an'  fer  him  to  make  his  escape  down  the  river  while 
he  had  setch  a  good  start.  I  wuzn't  goin'  to  let 
him  be  ketched  an'  at  the  same  time  I  wuzn't  goin'  to 
let  anything  happen  to  Miss  Violy  Gwyn  ef  I  could 
help  it.  I — I  sort  of  figgered  it  out  as  a  good  way  to 
help  both  o'  my  friends,  Mr.  Gwynne,  an' — an'  then 
this  here  thing  happened.  I  want  Mr.  Lapelle  to  git 
away  safe, — ca'se  I  know  whut  Pap's  goin'  to  do.  He's 
goin'  to  blat  out  a  lot  o'  things.  He  says  he's  sure 
Mr.  Lapelle  put  Mrs.  Gwyn  up  to  havin'  him  arrested." 


312  VIOLA    GWYN 

"I  think  you  may  rest  easy,  Moll,'*  said  he,  a  trifle 
grimly.  "Mr.  Lapelle  had  an  engagement  with  me  for 
to-morrow  morning,  but  I'll  stake  my  life  he  will  not 
be  here  to  keep  it." 

"All  right,"  she  said,  satisfied.  "Ef  you  say  so,  Mr. 
Gwynne,  I'll  believe  it.  Whut  do  you  think  they'll  do 
to  Pap?" 

"He  will  probably  get  a  dose  of  the  whipping-post, 
for  one  thing." 

She  grinned.  "Gosh,  I  wish  I  could  be  some'eres 
about  so's  I  could  see  it,"  she  cried. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

CHALLENGE    AND    BETOET 

KENNETH  could  hardly  contain  himself  until 
the  time  came  for  him  to  go  home  for  his  noon 
day  meal.  Try  as  he  would,  he  could  not 
divorce  his  thoughts  from  the  trouble  that  had  come 
to  Viola.  The  sinister  tragedy  in  Martin  Hawk's 
cabin  was  as  nothing  compared  to  the  calamity  that 
had  befallen  the  girl  he  loved,  for  Moll  Hawk's  troubles 
would  pass  like  a  whiff  of  the  wind  while  Viola's  would 
endure  to  the  end  of  time, — always  a  shadow  hanging 
over  her  brightest  day,  a  cloud  that  would  not  vanish. 
Out  of  the  silence  had  come  a  murmur  more  desolating 
than  the  thunderbolt  with  all  its  bombastic  fury;  out 
of  the  silence  had  come  a  voice  that  would  go  on 
forever  whispering  into  her  ear  an  unlovely  story. 

A  crowd  still  hung  about  the  jail  and  small,  ever- 
shifting  groups  held  sober  discourse  in  front  of  busi 
ness  places.  He  hurried  by  them  and  struck  off  up 
the  road,  his  mind  so  intent  upon  what  lay  ahead  of 
him  that  he  failed  to  notice  that  Jack  Trentman  had 
detached  himself  from  the  group  in  front  of  the  under 
taker's  and  was  following  swiftly  after  him.  He  was 
nearly  half-way  home  when  he  turned,  in  response  to 
a  call  from  behind,  and  beheld  the  gambler. 

"I'd  like  a  word  with  you,  Mr.  Gwynne,"  drawled 
Jack. 

"I  am  in  somewhat  of  a  hurry,  Mr. — 

"I'll  walk  along  with  you,  if  you  don't  mind,"  said 
313 


314  VIOLA   GWYN 

the  other,  coming  up  beside  him.  "I'm  not  in  the  habit 
of  beating  about  the  bush.  When  I've  got  anything  to 
do,  I  do  it  without  much  fiddling.  Barry  Lapelle  is 
down  at  my  place.  He  has  asked  me  to  represent  him 
in  a  little  controversy  that  seems  to  call  for  physical 
adjudication.  How  will  day  after  to-morrow  at  five 
in  the  morning  suit  you?" 

"Perfectly,"  replied  Kenneth  stiffly.  "Convey  my 
compliments  to  Mr.  Lapelle  and  say  to  him  that  I 
overlook  the  irregularity  and  will  be  glad  to  meet  him 
at  any  time  and  any  place." 

"I  know  it's  irregular,"  admitted  Mr.  Trentman, 
with  an  apologetic  wave  of  the  hand,  "but  he  was  in 
some  doubt  as  to  who  might  have  the  honour  to  act 
for  you,  Mr.  Gwynne,  so  he  suggested  that  I  come 
to  you  direct.  If  you  will  oblige  me  with  the  name 
of  the  friend  who  is  to  act  as  your  second,  I  will  make 
a  point  of  apologizing  for  having  accosted  you  in  this 
manner,  and  also  perfect  the  details  with  him." 

"I  haven't  given  the  matter  a  moment's  thought," 
said  Kenneth,  frowning.  "Day  after  to-morrow  morn 
ing,  you  say?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Can't  you  arrange  it  for  to-morrow  morning?" 

Mr.  Trentman  spread  out  his  hands  in  a  depreca 
tory  manner.  "In  view  of  the  fact  that  you  are  ex 
pected  to  appear  in  court  at  nine  to-morrow  morning 
to  defend  an  unfortunate  girl,  Mr.  Lapelle  feels  that 
he  would  be  doing  your  client  a  very  grave  injustice 
if  he  killed  her  lawyer — er — a  trifle  prematurely,  you 
might  say.  He  has  confided  to  me  that  he  is  the 
young  woman's  friend  and  can't  bear  the  thought  of 
having  her  chances  jeopardized  by — " 

"Pardon  me,  Mr.  Trentman,"  interrupted  Kenneth 


CHALLENGE    AND    RETORT      315 

shortly.  "Both  of  you  are  uncommonly  thoughtful 
and  considerate.  Now  that  I  am  reminded  of  my  pleas 
ant  little  encounter  with  Mr.  Lapelle  this  morning, 
I  am  constrained  to  remark  that  I  have  had  all  the 
satisfaction  I  desire.  You  may  say  to  him  that  I  am 
a  gentleman  and  not  in  the  habit  of  fighting  duels 
with  horse-thieves." 

Mr.  Trentman  started.  His  vaunted  aplomb  sus 
tained  a  sharp  spasm  that  left  him  with  a  slightly 
fallen  jaw. 

"Am  I  to  understand,  sir,  that  you  are  referring  to 
my  friend  as  a  horse- thief  ?"  he  demanded,  bridling. 

"I  merely  asked  you  to  take  that  message  to  him," 
said  Kenneth  coolly.  "I  might  add  cattle-thief,  sheep- 
stealer,  hog-thief  or — " 

"Why,  good  God,  sir,"  gasped  Mr.  Trentman,  "he'd 
shoot  you  down  like  a  dog  if  I — " 

"You  may  also  tell  Mr.  Lapelle  that  his  bosom  friend 
Martin  Hawk  is  in  jail." 

"Well,  what  of  it?" 

"Does  Lapelle  know  that  Martin  is  in  jail?" 

"Certainly, — and  he  says  he  ought  to  be  hung. 
That's  what  he  thinks  of  Hawk.  A  man  that  would 
sell  his  own — " 

"Hawk  is  in  jail  for  stock-stealing,  Mr.  Trentman." 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  the  case?  What's  that 
got  to  do  with  your  calling  my  friend  a  horse-thief?" 

"A  whole  lot,  sir.  You  will  probably  find  out  before 
the  day  is  over  that  you  are  harbouring  and  conceal 
ing  a  thief  down  there  in  your  shanty,  and  you  may 
thank  Martin  Hawk  for  the  information  in  case  you 
prefer  not  to  accept  the  word  of  a  gentleman.  If  you 
were  to  come  to  me  as  a  client  seeking  counsel,  I  should 
not  hesitate  to  advise  you, — as  your  lawyer, — that 


316  VIOLA   GWYN 

there  is  a  law  against  harbouring  criminals  and  that 
you  are  laying  yourself  open  to  prosecution." 

Trentman  dubiously  felt  of  his  chin. 

"Being  well  versed  in  the  law,"  he  said,  "I  suppose 
you  realize  that  Mr.  Lapelle  can  recover  heavy  damages 
against  you  in  case  what  you  have  said  to  me  isn't 
true." 

"Perfectly.  Therefore,  I  repeat  to  you  that  I  can 
not  engage  in  an  affair  of  honour  with  a  thief.  I 
knocked  him  down  this  morning,  but  that  was  in  the 
heat  of  righteous  anger.  For  fear  that  your  report 
to  him  may  lead  Mr.  Lapelle  to  construe  my  refusal 
to  meet  him  day  after  to-morrow  morning  as  cowardice 
on  my  part,  permit  me  to  make  this  request  of  you. 
Please  say  to  him  that  I  shall  arm  myself  with  a  pistol 
as  soon  as  I  have  reached  my  house,  and  that  I  expect 
to  be  going  about  the  streets  of  Lafayette  as  usual." 

"I  see,"  said  Mr.  Trentman,  after  a  moment.  "You 
mean  you'll  be  ready  for  him  in  case  he  hunts  you 
up." 

"Exactly." 

"By  the  way,  Mr.  Gwynne,  have  you  ever  fought  a 
duel?" 

"No." 

"Would  it  interest  you  to  know  that  Mr.  Lapelle 
has  engaged  in  several,  with  disastrous  results  to  his 
adversaries  ?" 

"I  think  he  has  already  mentioned  something  of  the 
kind  to  me." 

"I'd  sooner  be  your  friend  than  your  enemy,  Mr. 
Gwynne,"  said  the  gambler  earnestly.  "I  am  a  perma 
nent  citizen  of  this  town  and  I  have  no  quarrel  with 
you.  As  your  friend,  I  am  obliged  to  inform  you  that 
Barry  Lapelle  is  a  dead  shot  and  as  quick  as  lightning 


CHALLENGE    AND    RETORT      317 

with  a  pistol.  I  hope  you  will  take  this  in  the  same 
spirit  that  it  is  given." 

"I  thank  you,  sir,"  said  Kenneth,  courteously.  "By 
the  way,  do  you  happen  to  have  a  pistol  with  you  at 
present,  Mr.  Trentman?" 

The  other  looked  at  him  keenly  for  a  few  seconds 
before  answering.  "I  have.  I  seldom  go  without  one." 

"If  you  will  do  me  the  kindness  to  walk  with  me  up 
to  the  woods  beyond  the  lake  and  will  grant  me  the 
loan  of  your  weapon  for  half  a  minute,  I  think  I  may 
be  able  to  demonstrate  to  you  that  Mr.  Lapelle  is  not 
the  only  dead  shot  in  the  world.  I  was  brought  up 
with  a  pistol  in  my  hand,  so  to  speak.  Have  you  ever 
tried  to  shoot  a  ground  squirrel  at  twenty  paces?  You 
have  to  be  pretty  quick  to  do  that,  you  know." 

Trentman  shook  his  head.  "There's  a  lot  of  differ 
ence  between  shooting  a  ground  squirrel  and  blazing 
away  at  a  man  who  is  blazing  away  at  you  at  the  same 
time.  I'll  take  your  word  for  the  ground  squirrel 
business,  Mr.  Gwynne,  and  bid  you  good  day." 

"My  regrets  to  your  principal  and  my  apologies  to 
you,  Mr.  Trentman,"  said  Kenneth,  lifting  his  hat. 

The  gambler  raised  his  own  hat.  A  close  observer 
would  have  noticed  a  troubled,  anxious  gleam  in  his 
eye  as  he  turned  to  retrace  his  steps  in  the  direction 
of  the  square.  It  was  his  custom  to  saunter  slowly 
when  traversing  the  streets  of  the  town,  as  one  who 
produces  his  own  importance  and  enjoys  it  leisurely. 
He  never  hurried.  He  loitered  rather  more  gracefully 
when  walking  than  when  standing  still.  But  now  he 
strode  along  briskly, — in  fact,  with  such  lively  decision 
that  for  once  in  his  life  he  appeared  actually  to  be 
going  somewhere.  As  he  rounded  the  corner  and  came 
in  sight  of  the  jail,  he  directed  a  fixed,  consuming 


318  VIOLA    GWYN 

glare  upon  the  barred  windows ;  a  quite  noticeable 
scowl  settled  upon  his  ordinarily  unruffled  brow, — the 
scowl  of  one  searching  intently,  even  apprehensively. 

He  was  troubled.  His  composure  was  sadly  dis 
turbed.  Kenneth  Gwynne  had  given  him  something  to 
think  about, — and  the  more  he  thought  about  it  the 
faster  he  walked.  He  was  perspiring  quite  freely  and 
he  was  a  little  short  of  breath  when  he  flung  Oj^n  the 
door  and  entered  his  "den  of  iniquity"  down  by  the 
river.  He  took  in  at  a  glance  the  three  men  seated 
at  a  table  in  a  corner  of  the  somewhat  commodious 
"card-room."  One  of  them  was  dealing  "cold  hands" 
to  his  companions.  A  fourth  man,  his  dealer,  was 
leaning  against  the  window  frame,  gazing  pensively 
down  upon  the  slow-moving  river.  Two  of  the  men 
at  the  table  were  newcomers  in  town.  They  had  come 
up  on  the  Revere  and  they  had  already  established 
themselves  in  his  estimation  as  "skeletons" ;  that  is, 
they  had  been  picked  pretty  clean  by  "buzzards"  in 
other  climes  before  gravitating  to  his  "boneyard."  He 
considered  himself  a  good  judge  of  men,  and  he  did  not 
like  the  looks  of  this  ill-favoured  pair.  He  had  made 
up  his  mind  that  he  did  not  want  them  hanging  around 
the  "shanty";  men  of  that  stripe  were  just  the  sort 
to  give  the  place  a  bad  name!  One  of  them  had  re 
called  himself  to  Barry  Lapelle  the  night  before;  said 
he  used  to  work  for  a  trader  down  south  or  somewhere. 

Without  the  ceremony  of  a  knock  on  the  door,  Mr. 
Trentman  entered  a  room  at  the  end  of  the  shanty, 
and  there  he  found  Lapelle  reclining  on  a  cot.  Two 
narrow  slits  in  a  puffed  expanse  of  purple  grading  off 
to  a  greenish  yellow  indicated  the  position  of  Barry's 
eyes.  The  once  resplendent  dandy  was  now  a  sorry 
sight. 


CHALLENGE    AND   RETORT      319 

"Say,"  began  Trentman,  after  he  had  closed  the 
door,  "I  want  to  know  just  how  things  stand  with  you 
and  Martin  Hawk.  No  beating  about  the  bush,  Barry. 
I  want  the  truth  and  nothing  else." 

Barry  raised  himself  on  one  elbow  and  peered  at  his 
host.  "What  are  you  driving  at,  Jack?"  he  demanded, 
throatily. 

"Are  you  mixed  up  with  him  in  this  stock-running 
business  ?" 

"Well,  that's  a  hell  of  a  question  to  ask  a — " 

"It's  easy  to  answer.     Are  you?" 

"Certainly  not, — and  I  ought  to  put  a  bullet  through 
you  for  asking  such  an  insulting  question." 

"He's  in  jail,  charged  with  stealing  sheep  and  calves, 
and  he's  started  to  talk.  Now,  look  here,  Lapelle,  I'm 
your  friend,  but  if  you  are  mixed  up  in  this  business 
the  sooner  you  get  out  of  here  the  better  it  will  suit 
me.  Wait  a  minute!  I've  got  more  to  say.  I  know 
you're  planning  to  go  down  on  the  boat  to-morrow, 
but  I  don't  believe  it's  soon  enough.  I've  seen  Gwynne. 
He  says  in  plain  English  that  he  won't  fight  a  duel 
with  a  horse-thief.  He  must  have  some  reason  for 
saying  that.  He  has  been  employed  as  Moll  Hawk's 
lawyer.  She's  probably  been  talking,  too.  I've  been 
thinking  pretty  hard  the  last  ten  minutes  or  so,  and 
I'm  beginning  to  understand  why  you  wanted  me  to 
arrange  the  duel  for  day  after  to-morrow  when  you 
knew  you  were  leaving  town  on  the  Revere  in  the  morn 
ing.  You  were  trying  to  throw  Gwynne  off  the  track. 
I  thought  at  first  it  was  because  you  were  afraid  to 
fight  him,  but  now  I  see  things  differently.  I'll  be 
obliged  to  you  if  you'll  come  straight  out  and  tell  me 
what's  in  the  air.  I'm  a  square  man  and  I  like  to 
know  whether  I'm  dealing  with  square  men  or  not." 


320  VIOLA    GWYN 

Lapelle  sat  up  suddenly  on  the  edge  of  the  bed. 
Somehow,  it  seemed  to  Trentman,  the  greenish  yellow 
had  spread  lightly  over  the  rest  of  his  face. 

"You  say  Martin's  in  jail  for  stealing?"  he  asked, 
gripping  the  corn-husk  bedtick  with  tense,  nervous 
fingers,  "and  not  in  connection  with  the  killing  of 
Suggs?" 

"Yep.  And  I  sort  of  guess  you'll  be  with  him  before 
you're  much  older,  if  Gwynne  knows  what  he's — " 

"I've  got  to  get  out  of  this  town  to-night,  Jack," 
cried  the  younger  man,  starting  to  his  feet.  "Under 
stand,  I'm  not  saying  I  am  mixed  up  in  any  way  with 
Hawk  and  his  crowd,  but — but  I've  got  important 
business  in  Attica  early  to-morrow  morning.  That's 
all  you  can  get  me  to  say.  I'll  sneak  up  the  back 
road  to  the  tavern  and  pack  my  saddle-bags  this  after 
noon,  and  I'll  leave  money  with  you  to  settle  with  John 
son.  I  may  have  to  ask  you  to  fetch  my  horse  down 
here—" 

"Just  a  minute,"  broke  in  Trentman,  who  had  been 
regarding  him  with  hard,  calculating  eyes.  "If  it's  as 
bad  as  all  this,  I  guess  you'd  better  not  wait  till  to 
night.  It  may  be  too  late, — and  besides  I  don't  want 
the  sheriff  coming  down  here  and  jerking  you  out  of 
my  place.  You  don't  need  to  tell  me  anything  more 
about  your  relations  with  Hawk.  I'm  no  fool,  Barry. 
I  know  now  that  you  are  mixed  up  in  this  stock- 
stealing  business  that's  been  going  on  for  months.  It 
don't  take  a  very  smart  brain  to  grasp  the  situation. 
You've  probably  been  making  a  pretty  good  thing  out 
of  moving  this  stuff  down  the  river  on  your  boats, 
and —  Now,  don't  get  up  on  your  ear,  my  friend! 
No  use  trying  to  bamboozle  me.  You're  scared  stiff, — 


CHALLENGE    AND    RETORT      321 

and  that's  enough  for  me.  And  you've  got  a  right 
to  be.  This  will  put  an  end  to  your  company's  boats 
coming  up  here  for  traffic, — it  will  kill  you  deader'n  a 
doornail  so  far  as  business  is  concerned.  So  you'd 
better  get  out  at  once.  I  never  liked  you  very  much 
anyhow  and  now  I've  got  no  use  for  you  at  all.  Just 
to  save  my  own  skin  and  my  own  reputation  as  a 
law-abiding  citizen,  I'll  help  you  to  get  away.  Now, 
here's  what  I'll  do.  I'll  send  up  and  get  your  horse 
and  have  him  down  here  inside  of  fifteen  minutes. 
There's  so  darned  much  excitement  up  in  town  about 
this  murder  that  nobody's  going  to  notice  you  for  the 
time  being.  And  besides  a  lot  of  farmers  from  over 
west  are  coming  in,  scared  half  to  death  about  Black 
Hawk's  Indians.  They'll  be  out  looking  for  you  before 
long,  your  lordship,  and  it  won't  be  for  the  purpose  of 
inviting  you  to  have  a  drink.  They'll  probably  bring 
a  rail  along  with  *em,  so's  you'll  at  least  have  the 
consolation  of  riding  up  to  the  calaboose.  You'll — " 
"Oh,  for  God's  sake!"  grated  Barry,  furiously. 
"Don't  try  to  be  comical,  Trentman.  This  is  no  time 
to  joke, — or  preach  either.  Give  me  a  swig  of — " 

"Nope!  No  whiskey,  my  friend,"  said  the  gambler 
firmly.  "Whiskey  always  puts  false  courage  into  a 
man,  and  I  don't  want  you  to  be  doing  anything  foolish. 
I'll  have  your  mare  Fancy  down  here  in  fifteen  minutes, 
saddled  and  everything,  and  you  will  hop  on  her  and 
ride  up  the  street,  right  past  the  court  house,  just 
as  if  you're  out  for  an  hour's  canter  for  your  health. 
You  will  not  have  any  saddle-bags  or  traps.  You'll 
ride  light,  my  friend.  That  will  throw  'em  off  the 
track.  But  what  I  want  you  to  do  as  soon  as  you  get 
out  the  other  side  of  the  tanyard  is  to  turn  in  your 


322  VIOLA    GWYN 

saddle  and  wave  a  last  farewell  to  the  Star  City.  You 
might  throw  a  kiss  at  it,  too,  while  you're  about  it.  Be 
cause  you've  got  a  long  journey  ahead  of  you  and 
you're  not  coming  back, — that  is,  unless  they  overtake 
you.  There's  some  pretty  fast  horses  in  this  town, 
as  you  may  happen  to  remember.  So  I'd  advise  you 
to  get  a  good  long  start, — and  keep  it." 

If  Lapelle  heard  all  of  this  he  gave  no  sign,  for 
he  had  sidled  over  to  the  little  window  and  was  peering 
obliquely  through  the  trees  toward  the  road  that  led 
from  the  "shanty"  toward  the  town.  Suddenly  he 
turned  upon  the  gambler,  a  savage  oath  on  his  lips. 

"You  bet  I'll  come  back!  And  when  I  do,  I'll  give 
this  town  something  to  talk  about.  I'll  make  tracks 
now.  It's  the  only  thing  to  do.  But  I'm  not  licked — 
not  by  a  long  shot,  Jack  Trentman.  I'll  be  back 
inside  of — " 

"I'll  make  you  a  present  of  a  couple  of  pistols  a 
fellow  left  with  me  for  a  debt  a  month  or  so  ago.  You 
may  need  'em,"  said  Trentman  blandly.  "Better  get 
ready  to  start.  I'll  have  the  horse  here  in  no  time." 

"You're  damned  cold-blooded,"  growled  Barry,  pet 
tishly. 

"Yep,"  agreed  the  other.     "But  I'm  kind-hearted." 

He  went  out,  slamming  the  door  behind  him.  Twenty 
minutes  later,  Barry  emerged  from  the  "shanty"  and 
mounted  his  sleek,  restless  thoroughbred.  Having 
recovered,  for  purposes  of  deception,  his  lordly,  cock- 
o'-the-walk  attitude  toward  the  world,  he  rode  off 
jauntily  in  the  direction  of  the  town,  according  Trent 
man  the  scant  courtesy  of  a  careless  wave  of  the  hand 
at  parting.  He  had  counted  his  money,  examined  the 
borrowed  pistols,  and  at  the  last  moment  had  hurriedly 


CHALLENGE    AND    RETOKfT     323 

dashed  off  a  brief  letter  to  Kenneth  Gwynne,  to  be 
posted  the  following  day  by  the  avid  though  obliging 
Mr.  Trentman. 

Stifling  his  rancour  and  coercing  his  vanity  at  the 
same  time,  he  cantered  boldly  past  the  Tavern,  bitterly 
aware  of  the  protracted  look  of  amazement  that  inter 
rupted  the  conversation  of  some  of  the  most  influential 
citizens  of  the  place  as  at  least  a  score  of  eyes  fell  upon 
his  battered  visage.  Pride  and  rage  got  the  better 
of  him.  He  whirled  Fancy  about  with  a  savage  jerk 
and  rode  back  to  the  group. 

"Take  a  good  look,  gentlemen,"  he  snapped  out,  his 
eyes  gleaming  for  all  the  world  like  two  thin  little 
slivers  of  red-hot  iron.  "The  coward  who  hit  me  be 
fore  I  had  a  chance  to  defend  myself  has  just  denied 
me  the  satisfaction  of  a  duel.  I  sent  him  a  challenge 
to  fight  it  out  with  pistols  day  after  to-morrow  morn 
ing.  He  is  afraid  to  meet  me.  The  challenge  still 
stands.  If  you  should  see  Mr.  Gwynne,  gentlemen, 
between  now  and  Friday  morning,  do  me  the  favour  to 
say  to  him  that  I  will  be  the  happiest  man  on  earth 
if  he  can  muster  up  sufficient  courage  to  change  his 
mind.  Good  day,  gentlemen." 

With  this  vainglorious  though  vicarious  challenge 
to  an  absent  enemy,  he  touched  the  gad  to  Fancy's 
flank  and  rode  away,  his  head  erect,  his  back  as  stiff 
as  a  ramrod,  leaving  behind  him  a  staring  group  whose 
astonishment  did  not  give  way  to  levity  until  he  was 
nearing  the  corner  of  the  square.  He  cursed  softly 
under  his  breath  at  the  sound  of  the  first  guffaw ;  he 
subdued  with  difficulty  a  wild,  reckless  impulse  to  turn 
in  the  saddle  and  send  a  shot  or  two  at  them.  But 
this  was  no  time  for  folly, — no  time  to  lose  his  head. 


324,  VIOLA    GWYN 

Out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  he  took  in  the  jail  and 
the  group  of  citizens  on  the  court  house  steps.  Some 
thing  seemed  to  tell  him  that  these  men  were  saying, 
"'There  he  goes, — stop  him !  He's  getting  away !" 
They  were  looking  at  him ;  of  that  he  was  subtly  con 
scious,  although  he  managed  to  keep  his  eyes  set 
straight  ahead.  Only  the  most  determined  effort  of 
the  will  kept  him  from  suddenly  putting  spur  to  the 
mare.  Afterwards  he  complimented  himself  on  his 
remarkable  self-control,  and  laughed  as  he  likened  his 
present  alarm  to  that  of  a  boy  passing  a  graveyard 
at  night.  Nevertheless,  he  was  now  filled  with  an 
acute,  very  real  sense  of  anxiety  and  apprehension; 
every  nerve  was  on  edge. 

It  was  all  very  well  for  Jack  Trentman  to  say  that 
this  was  the  safest,  most  sensible  way  to  go  about  it, 
but  had  Jack  ever  been  through  it  himself?  At  any 
moment  Martin  Hawk  might  catch  a  glimpse  of  him 
through  the  barred  window  of  the  jail  and  let  out  a 
shout  of  warning;  at  any  moment  the  sheriff  himself 
might  dash  out  of  the  court  house  with  a  warrant  in 
his  hand, — and  then  what?  He  had  the  chill,  uneasy 
feeling  that  they  would  be  piling  out  after  him  before 
he  could  reach  the  corner  of  the  friendly  thickets  at 
the  lower  end  of  the  street. 

A  pressing  weight  seemed  to  slide  off  his  shoulders 
and  neck  as  Fancy  swung  smartly  around  the  bend 
into  the  narrow  wagon-road  that  stretched  its  aimless 
way  through  the  scrubby  bottom-lands  and  over  the 
ridge  to  the  open  sweep  of  the  plains  beyond.  Presently 
he  urged  the  mare  to  a  rhythmic  lope,  and  all  the  while 
his  ears  were  alert  for  the  thud  of  galloping  horses 
behind.  It  was  not  until  he  reached  the  table-land  to 
the  south  that  he  drove  the  rowels  into  the  flanks  of 


CHALLENGE    AND    RETORT      325 

the  swift  four-year-old  and  leaned  forward  in  the  saddle 
to  meet  the  rush  of  the  wind.  Full  well  he  knew  that 
given  the  start  of  an  hour  no  horse  in  the  county  could 
catch  his  darling  Fancy! 

And  so  it  was  that  Barry  Lapelle  rode  out  of  the 
town  of  Lafayette,  never  to  return  again. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

IN    AN    UPSTAIRS    ROOM 

IT  was  characteristic  of  Rachel  Carter  that  she 
should  draw  the  window  curtains  aside  in  Viola's 
bedroom,  allowing  the  pitiless  light  of  day  to  fall 
upon  her  face  as  she  seated  herself  to  make  confession. 
She  had  come  to  the  hour  when  nothing  was  to  be 
hidden  from  her  daughter,  least  of  all  the  cheek  that 
was  to  be  smitten. 

The  girl  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  her  elbow  on  the 
footboard,  her  cheek  resting  upon  her  hand.  Not  once 
did  she  take  her  eyes  from  the  grey,  emotionless  face 
of  the  woman  who  sat  in  the  light. 

In  course  of  time,  Rachel  Carter  came  to  the 
end  of  her  story.  She  had  made  no  attempt  to  justify 
herself,  had  uttered  no  word  of  regret,  no  signal  of 
repentance,  no  plea  for  forgiveness.  The  cold,  unfal 
tering  truth,  without  a  single  mitigating  alloy  in  the 
shape  of  sentiment,  had  issued  from  her  tired  but  un- 
conquered  soul.  She  went  through  to  the  end  without 
being  interrupted  by  the  girl,  whose  silence  was  elo 
quent  of  a  strength  and  courage  unsurpassed  even  by 
this  woman  from  whom  she  had,  after  all,  inherited  both. 
She  did  not  flinch,  she  did  not  cringe  as  the  twenty- 
year-old  truth  was  laid  bare  before  her.  She  was  made 
of  the  same  staunch  fibre  as  her  mother,  she  possessed 
the  indomitable  spirit  that  stiffens  and  remains  un 
yielding  in  the  face  of  calamity. 

"Now   you   know   everything,"   said  Rachel   Carter 

326 


IN    AN    UPSTAIRS    ROOM         327 

wearily.  "I  have  tried  to  keep  it  from  you.  But  the 
truth  will  out.  It  is  God's  law.  I  would  have  spared 
you  if  I  could.  You  are  of  my  flesh  and  blood,  you  are 
a  part  of  me.  There  has  never  been  an  instant  in  all 
these  hard,  trying  years  when  I  have  not  loved  and 
cherished  you  as  the  gift  that  no  woman,  honest  or 
dishonest,  can  despise.  You  will  know  what  that  means 
when  you  have  a  child  of  your  own,  and  you  will  never 
know  it  until  that  has  come  to  pass.  You  may  cast 
me  out  of  your  heart,  Viola,  but  you  cannot  tear  your 
self  out  of  mine.  So!  I  have  spoken.  There  is  no 
more." 

She  turned  her  head  to  look  out  of  the  window. 
Viola  did  not  move.  Presently  the  older  woman  spoke 
again. 

"Your  name  is  Minda  Carter.  You  will  be  twenty- 
two  years  old  next  September.  You  have  no  right  to 
the  name  of  Gwynne.  The  boy  who  lives  in  that  house 
over  yonder  is  the  only  one  who  has  a  right  to  it.  But 
his  birthright  is  no  cleaner  than  yours.  You  can  look 
him  in  the  face  without  shame  to  yourself,  because 
your  father  was  an  honest  man  and  your  mother  was 
his  loyal,  faithful  wife, — and  Kenneth  Gwynne  can 
say  no  more  than  that." 

"Nor  as  much,"  burst  from  the  girl's  lips  with  a 
fervour  that  startled  her  mother.  "His  father  was  not 
a  loyal,  faithful  husband,  nor  was  he  an  honest  man 
or  he  would  have  married  you." 

She  was  on  her  feet  now,  her  body  bent  slightly 
forward,  her  smouldering  eyes  fixed  intently  upon  her; 
mother's  face. 

Rachel  Carter  stared  incredulously.  Something  in 
Viola's  eyes,  in  the  ring  of  her  voice  caused  her  heart 
to  leap. 


328  VIOLA    GWYN 

"I  was  his  wife  in  the  eyes  of  God,"  she  began,  but 
something  rushed  up  into  her  throat  and  seemed  to 
choke  her. 

"And  you  have  told  Kenneth  all  this?'*  cried  Viola, 
a  light  as  of  understanding  flooding  her  eyes.  "He 
knows?  How  long  has  he  known?'* 

"I — I  can't  remember.  Some  of  it  for  weeks,  some 
of  it  only  since  last  night." 

"Ah!"  There  was  a  world  of  meaning  in  the  cry. 
Even  as  she  uttered  it  she  seemed  to  feel  his  arms  about 
her  and  the  strange  thrill  that  had  charged  through 
her  body  from  head  to  foot.  She  sat  down  again  on 
the  edge  of  the  bed ;  a  dark  wave  of  colour  surging  to 
her  cheek  and  brow. 

"I  am  waiting,"  said  her  mother,  after  a  moment. 
Her  voice  was  steady.  "It  is  your  turn  to  speak, 
my  child." 

Viola  came  to  her  side. 

"Mother,"  she  began,  a  deep,  full  note  in  her  voice, 
"I  want  you  to  let  me  sit  in  your  lap,  with  your  arms 
around  me.  Like  when  I  was  a  little  girl." 

Rachel  lifted  her  eyes ;  and  as  the  girl  looked  down 
into  them  the  hardness  of  years  melted  away  and  they 
grew  wondrous  soft  and  gentle. 

"Is  this  your  verdict?"  she  asked  solemnly. 

"Yes,"  was  the  simple  response. 

"You  do  not  cast  me  out  of  your  heart?  Remember, 
in  the  sight  of  man,  I  am  an  evil  woman." 

"You  are  my  mother.  You  did  not  desert  me.  You 
would  not  leave  me  behind.  You  have  loved  me  since 
the  day  I  was  born.  You  will  never  be  an  evil  woman 
in  my  eyes.  Hold  me  in  your  lap,  mother  dear.  I  shall 
always  feel  safe  then." 

Rachel's  lips  and  chin  quivered.  ...  A  long  time 


IN    AN    UPSTAIRS    ROOM         329 

afterward  the  girl  gently  disengaged  herself  from  the 
strong,  tense  embrace  and  rose  to  her  feet. 

"You  say  that  Kenneth  hates  you,"  she  said,  "and 
you  say  that  you  do  not  blame  him.  Is  it  right  and 
fair  that  he  should  hate  you  any  more  than  I  should 
hate  his  father?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Rachel  Carter,  "it  is  right  and  fair. 
I  was  his  mother's  best  friend.  His  father  did  not 
betray  his  best  friend  as  I  did,  for  my  husband  was 
dead.  There  is  a  difference,  my  child." 

Viola  shook  her  head  stubbornly.  "I  don't  see  why 
the  woman  must  always  be  crucified  and  the  man  allowed 
to  go  his  way — " 

"It  is  no  use,  Viola,"  interrupted  Rachel,  rising. 
Her  face  had  hardened  again.  "We  cannot  change 
the  ways  of  the  world."  She  crossed  the  room,  but 
stopped  with  her  hand  on  the  door-latch.  Turning 
to  her  daughter,  she  said:  "Whatever  Kenneth  may 
think  of  me,  he  has  the  greatest  respect  and  admiration 
for  you.  He  bears  no  grudge  against  Minda  Carter. 
On  the  contrary,  he  has  shown  that  he  would  lay  down 
his  life  for  you.  You  must  bear  no  grudge  against 
him.  You  and  he  are  children  who  have  walked  in 
darkness  for  twenty  years,  but  now  you  have  come  to 
a  place  where  there  is  light.  See  to  it,  Viola,  that  you 
are  as  fair  to  him  as  you  would  have  him  be  to  you. 
You  stand  on  common  ground  with  the  light  of  under 
standing  all  about  you.  Do  not  turn  your  backs  upon 
each  other.  Face  one  another.  It  is  the  only  way." 

Viola's  eyes  flashed.     She  lifted  her  chin. 

"I  am  not  ashamed  to  look  Kenneth  Gwynne  in  the 
face,"  said  she,  a  certain  crispness  in  her  voice.  Then, 
with  a  quick  change  to  tenderness,  "You  are  so  tired, 
mother.  Won't  you  lie  down  and  sleep  awhile?" 


330  VIOLA   GWYN 

"After  I  have  eaten  something.  Come  downstairs. 
I  want  to  hear  what  happened  here  this  morning. 
Kenneth  told  me  very  little  and  you  have  done  nothing 
but  ask  questions  of  me." 

"Did  he  tell  you  that  he  struck  Barry  Lapelle?" 

"No." 

"Or  how  near  I  came  to  shooting  him?" 

"Merciful  heaven!" 

"Well,  I  guess  Barry  won't  rest  till  he  has  told  the 
whole  town  what  we  are, — and  then  we'll  have  to  face 
something  cruel,  mother.  But  we  will  face  it  together." 

She  put  her  arm  about  her  mother's  shoulders  and 
they  went  down  the  narrow  staircase  together. 

"It  will  not  cost  me  a  single  friend,  Viola,"  remarked 
Rachel  grimly.  "I  have  none  to  lose.  But  with  you 
it  will  be  different.". 

"We  don't  have  to  stay  in  the  old  town,"  said  Viola 
bravely.  "The  world  is  large.  We  can  move  on. 
Just  as  we  used  to  before  we  came  here  to  live.  Always 
moving  on,  we  were." 

Rachel  shook  her  head.  They  were  at  the  bottom 
of  the  stairs. 

"I  will  not  move  on.  This  is  where  I  intend  to  live 
and  die.  The  man  I  lived  for  is  up  yonder  in  the  grave 
yard.  I  will  not  go  away  and  leave  him  now, — not 
after  all  these  years.  But  you,  my  child,  you  must 
move  on.  You  have  something  else  to  live  for.  I  have 
nothing.  But  I  can  hold  my  head  up,  even  here.  You 
will  not  find  it  so  easy.  You  will-1—" 

"It  will  be  as  easy  for  me  as  it  will  for  Kenneth 
Gwynne,"  broke  in  the  girl.  "Wait  and  see  which  one 
of  us  runs  away  first.  It  won't  be  me." 

"He  will  not  go  away  and  leave  you,"  said  Rachel 
Garter. 


IN    AN   UPSTAIRS    ROOM         331 

Viola  gave  her  a  quick,  startled  look.  They  were 
in  the  kitchen,  however,  before  she  spoke.  Then  it  was 
to  say: 

"Now  I  understand  why  I  have  never  been  able  to 
think  of  him  as  my  brother."  That,  and  nothing  more ; 
there  was  an  odd,  almost  frightened  expression  in  her 
eyes. 

She  got  breakfast  for  her  mother,  Hattie  having 
been  sent  down  into  the  town  by  her  mistress  immedi 
ately  upon  her  return  home,  ostensibly  to  make  a  few 
purchases  but  actually  for  the  purpose  of  getting  rid 
of  her.  Viola,  in  relating  the  story  of  the  morning's 
events,  was  careful  to  avoid  using  the  harshest  of 
Barry's  terms,  but  earnestly  embellished  the  account 
of  Kenny's  interference  with  some  rather  formidable 
expressions  of  her  own,  putting  them  glibly  into  the 
mouth  of  her  champion.  Once  her  mother  interrupted 
her  to  inquire: 

"Did  Kenneth  actually  use  those  words,  Viola? 
'Pusillanimous  varlet,' — and  'mendacious  scalawag'? 
It  does  not  sound  like  Kenneth." 

Viola  had  the  grace  to  blush  guiltily.  "No,  he  didn't. 
He  swore  harder  than  anybody  I've  ever — " 

"That's  better,"  said  Rachel,  somewhat  sternly. 

Later  on  they  sat  on  the  little  front  porch,  where 
the  older  woman,  with  scant  recourse  to  the  graphic, 
narrated  the  story  of  Moll  Hawk.  Pain  and  horror 
dwelt  in  Viola's  wide,  lovely  eyes. 

"Oh,  poor,  poor  Moll,"  she  murmured  at  the  end 
of  the  wretched  tale.  "She  has  never  known  a  mother's 
love,  or  a  mother's  care.  She  has  never  had  a  chance." 

Then  Rachel  Carter  said  a  strange  thing.  "When 
all  this  is  over  and  she  is  free,  I  intend  to  offer  her 
a  home  here  with  me." 


332  VIOLA    GWYN 

The  girl  stared,  open-mouthed.  "With  you?  Here 
with  us?" 

"You  will  not  always  be  here  with  me,"  said  her 
mother. 

"How  can  you  say  such  a  thing  ?"  with  honest  indig 
nation.  Then  quickly:  "I  know  I  planned  to  run 
off  and  leave  you  a  little  while  ago,  but  that  was  before 
I  came  to  know  how  much  you  need  me." 

Rachel  experienced  one  of  her  rare  smiles.  "And 
before  you  came  to  know  Kenneth  Gwynne,"  she  said. 
"No,  my  dear,  the  time  is  not  far  off  when  you  will 
not  need  a  mother.  Moll  Hawk  needs  one  now.  I 
shall  try  to  be  a  mother  to  that  hapless  girl.'* 

Viola  looked  at  her,  the  little  line  of  perplexity 
deepening  between  her  eyes. 

"Somehow  it  seems  to  me  that  I  am  just  beginning 
to  know  my  own  mother,"  she  said. 

A  bluejay,  sweeping  gracefully  out  over  the  tree- 
tops,  came  to  rest  upon  a  lofty  bough  in  the  grove 
across  the  road.  They  sat  for  a  long  time  without 
speaking,  these  two  women,  watching  him  preen  and 
prink,  a  bit  of  lively  blue  against  the  newborn  green. 
Then  he  flew  away.  He  "moved  on," — a  passing  sym 
bol. 

How  simple,  how  easy  it  was  for  this  bright,  gay 
vagabond  to  return  to  the  silence  from  which  he  had 
come. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

MINDA    CARTEB. 

VIOLA  was  alone  on  the  porch  when  Kenneth 
came  into  view  at  the  bend  in  the  road. 
He  had  chuckled  more  than  once  after  part 
ing  from  the  gambler;  a  mental  vision  of  the  inwardly 
agitated  though  outwardly  bland  Mr.  Trentman  mak 
ing  tracks  as  fast  as  his  legs  would  carry  him  to  warn 
Lapelle  of  his  peril  afforded  him  no  small  amount  of 
satisfaction.  If  he  knew  his  man, — and  he  thought  he 
did, — Barry  would  lose  no  time  in  shaking  the  dust  of 
Lafayette  from  his  feet.  The  thought  of  that  had 
sent  his  spirits  up.  He  went  even  farther  in  his  reflec 
tions  and  found  himself  hoping  that  Barry's  flight 
might  be  so  precipitous  that  he  would  not  have  the 
opportunity  to  disclose  his  newfound  information  con 
cerning  Rachel  Carter. 

He  was  nearing  his  own  gate  before  he  saw  Viola, 
seated  on  the  porch.  Involuntarily  he  slackened  his 
pace.  A  sort  of  panic  seized  him.  Was  she  waiting 
there  to  question  him?  He  experienced  a  sudden  over 
whelming  dismay.  What  was  he  to  say  to  her?  How 
was  he  to  face  the  unhappy,  stricken, — but  even  as 
he  contemplated  a  cowardly  retreat,  she  arose  and  came 
swiftly  down  the  path.  He  groaned  inwardly.  There 
was  no  escape. 

Now,  as  he  hesitated  uncertainly  at  his  own  gate, 
his  heart  in  his  boots,  she  serenely  beckoned  to  him. 

"I  want  to  see  you,  Kenny,"  she  called  out. 

333 


334  VIOLA   GWYN 

This  was  no  stricken,  unhappy  creature  who  ap 
proached  him.  Her  figure  was  proudly  erect ;  she 
walked  briskly ;  there  was  no  trace  of  shame  or  humilia 
tion  in  her  face ;  if  anything,  she  was  far  more  at  ease 
than  he. 

"I  want  to  thank  you,"  she  said  calmly,  'for  what 
you  did  this  morning.  Not  only  for  what  you  did  to 
him  but  for  keeping  me  from  shooting  him."  She 
held  out  her  hand,  but  lowered  it  instantly  when  she 
saw  that  his  own  was  rather  significantly  hidden  inside 
the  breast  of  his  coat.  A  look  of  pain  fluttered  across 
her  eyes. 

"Where  is  your  mother?"  he  asked  lamely. 

She  seemed  to  read  his  thoughts.  "Mother  and  I 
have  talked  it  all  over,  Kenneth.  She  has  told  me 
everything." 

"Oh,  you  poor  darling!"  he  cried. 

"Don't  waste  any  sympathy  on  me,"  she  retorted, 
coldly.  "I  don't  want  it.  Not  from  Robert  Gwynne's 
son  at  any  rate." 

He  was  now  looking  at  her  steadily.  "I  see.  You 
don't  care  for  the  breed,  is  that  it?" 

"Kenny,"  she  began,  a  solemn  note  in  her  voice, 
"there  is  no  reason  why  you  and  I  should  hurt  each 
other.  If  I  hurt  you  just  now  I  am  sorry.  But  I 
meant  what  I  said.  I  do  not  want  the  pity  of  Robert 
Gwynne's  son  any  more  than  you  want  to  be  pitied  by 
the  daughter  of  Rachel  Carter.  We  stand  on  even 
terms.  I  just  want  you  to  know  that  my  heart  is  as 
stout  as  yours  and  that  my  pride  is  as  strong." 

He  bowed  his  head.  "All  my  life  I  have  thought  of 
my  father  as  a  Samson  who  was  betrayed  by  a  Delilah. 
I  have  never  allowed  myself  to  think  of  him  as  anything 
but  great  and  strong  and  good.  I  grew  to  man's  estate 


MINDA    CARTER  335 

still  believing  him  to  be  the  victim  of  an  evil  woman. 
I  am  not  in  the  ordinary  sense  a  fool  and  yet  I  have 
been  utterly  without  the  power  to  reason.  My  eyes 
have  been  opened,  Viola.  I  am  seeing  with  a  new  vision. 
I  have  more  to  overlook,  more  to  forgive  in  my  father 
than  you  have  in  your  mother.  I  speak  plainly,  be 
cause  I  hope  this  is  to  be  the  last  time  we  ever  touch 
upon  the  subject.  You,  at  least,  have  grown  up  to 
know  the  enduring  love  of  a  mother.  She  did  not 
leave  you  behind.  She  was  not  altogether  heartless. 
That  is  all  I  can  say,  all  I  shall  ever  say,  even  to  youj 
about  my  father." 

He  spoke  with  such  deep  feeling  and  yet  so  simply 
that  her  heart  was  touched.  A  wistful  look  came  into 
her  eyes. 

"I  am  still  bewildered  by  it  all,  Kenny,"  she  said. 
"In  the  wink  of  an  eye,  everything  is  altered.  I  am 
not  Viola  Gwyn.  I  am  Minda  Carter.  I  am  not  your 
half-sister.  You  seem  suddenly  to  have  gone  very 
far  away  from  me.  It  hurts  me  to  feel  that  we  can 
never  be  the  same  toward  each  other  that  we  were 
even  this  morning.  I  had  come  to  care  for  you  as  a 
brother.  Now  you  are  a  stranger.  I — I  loved  being 
your  sister  and — and  treating  you  as  if  you  were  my 
brother.  Now  all  that  is  over."  She  sighed  deeply. 

"Yes,"  he  said  gently,  "all  that  is  over  for  you, 
Viola.  But  I  have  known  for  many  weeks  that  you  are 
not  my  sister." 

"I  bear  no  grudge  against  you,"  she  said,  meeting 
his  gaze  steadily.  "My  heart  is  bitter  toward  the  man 
I  have  always  looked  upon  as  my  father.  But  it  does 
not  contain  one  drop  of  bitterness  toward  you.  What 
matters  if  I  have  walked  in  darkness  and  you  in  the 
light?  We  were  treading  the  same  path  all  the  time. 


336  VIOLA    GWYN 

Now  we  meet  and  know  each  other  for  what  we  really 
are.  The  path  is  not  wide  enough  for  us  to  walk  be 
side  each  other  without  our  garments  touching.  Are 
we  to  turn  back  and  walk  the  other  way  so  that  our 
unclean  garments  may  not  touch?" 

"For  heaven's  sake,  Viola,"  he  cried  in  pain,  "what 
can  have  put  such  a  thought  into  your  head?  Have  I 
ever  said  or  done  anything  to  cause  you  to  think  I — '* 

"You  must  not  forget  that  you  can  walk  by  your 
self,  Kenny.  Your  father  is  dead.  The  world  is  kind 
enough  to  let  the  dead  rest  in  peace.  But  it  gives 
no  quarter  to  the  living.  My  mother  walks  with  me, 
Kenneth  Gwynne.  The  world,  when  it  knows,  will  throw 
stones  at  her.  That  means  it  will  have  to  throw 
stones  at  me.  She  did  not  abandon  me.  I  shall  not 
abandon  her.  She  sinned," — here  her  lip  trembled, — - 
"and  she  has  been  left  to  pay  the  penalty  alone.  It 
may  sound  strange  to  you,  but  my  mother  was  also 
deserted  by  your  father.  God  let  him  die,  but  I  can't 
help  feeling  that  it  wasn't  fair,  it  wasn't  right  for 
him  to  die  and  leave  her  to  face  this  all  alone." 

"And  you  want  to  know  where  I  stand  in  the  mat 
ter?" 

"It  makes  no  difference,  Kenny.  I  only  want  you 
to  understand.  I  don't  want  to  lose  you  as  a  friend, — 
I  would  like  to  have  you  stand  up  and  take  your  share 
of  the—" 

"And  that  is  just  what  I  intend  to  do,"  he  broke  in. 
"We  occupy  strange  positions,  Viola.  We  are, — shall 
I  say  birds  of  a  feather?  This  had  to  come.  Now 
that  it  has  come  and  you  know  all  that  I  know,  are 
we  to  turn  against  each  other  because  of  what  hap 
pened  when  we  were  babies?  We  have  done  no  wrong. 
I  love  you,  Viola, — I  began  loving  you  before  I  found 


MINDA    CARTER  337 

out  you  were  not  my  half-sister.  I  will  love  you  all 
my  life.  Now  you  know  where  I  stand." 

She  looked  straight  into  his  eyes  for  a  long  time ;  in 
her  own  there  was  something  that  seemed  to  search 
his  soul,  something  of  wonder,  something  groping  and 
intense  as  if  her  own  soul  was  asking  a  grave,  perplex 
ing  question.  A  faint,  slow  surge  of  colour  stole  into 
her  face.  "I  must  go  in  the  house  now,"  she  said,  a 
queer  little  flutter  in  her  voice.  "After  dinner  I  am 
going  down  with  mother  to  see  Moll  Hawk.  If — if 
you  mean  all  that  you  have  just  said,  Kenny,  why  did 
you  refuse  to  shake  hands  with  me?" 

He  withdrew  his  bruised  right  hand  from  its  hiding- 
place.  "It  is  an  ugly  thing  to  look  at  but  I  am  proud 
of  it,"  he  said.  "I  would  give  it  for  you  a  thousand 
times  over." 

"Oh,  I'm — I'm  sorry  I  misjudged  you — "  she  cried 
out.  Then  both  of  her  hands  closed  on  the  unsightly 
member  and  pressed  it  gently,  tenderly.  There  was 
that  in  the  touch  of  her  firm,  strong  fingers  that  sent 
an  ecstatic  shock  racing  into  every  fibre  in  his  body. 
"I  will  never  question  that  hand  again,  Kenny,"  she 
said,  and  then,  releasing  it,  she  turned  and  walked 
rapidly  away. 

He  stood  watching  her  until  she  ran  nimbly  up  the 
porch  steps  and  disappeared  inside  the  house.  Where 
upon  he  lifted  the  swollen  but  now  blessed  knuckles 
to  his  lips  and  sighed  profoundly. 

"Something  tells  me  she  still  loves  Barry,  in  spite 
of  everything,"  he  muttered,  suddenly  immersed  in 
gloom.  "Women  stick  through  thick  and  thin.  If 
they  once  love  a  man  they  never — " 

"Dinner's  ready,  Marse  Kenneth,"  announced  Zach- 
ariah  from  the  door-step. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE    FLIGHT    OF    MARTIN    HAWK 

NOW,  Martin  Hawk  was  not  a  patient  man.     He 
waited  till  mid-afternoon  for  some  word  from 
Barry  Lapelle  in  response  to  his  message,  and, 
receiving   none, — (for  the  very   good   reason  that   it 
was   never  delivered), — fell  to   blaspheming  mightily, 
and  before  he  was  through  with  it  revealed  enough  to 
bring  about  an  ultimate  though  fruitless  search  for 
the  departed  "go-between." 

He  was,  however,  careful  to  omit  any  mention  of  the 
Paul  Revere' s  captain,  remembering  just  in  time  that 
hardy  riverman's  promise  to  blow  his  brains  out  if  he 
even  so  much  as  breathed  his  name  in  connection  with 
certain  nefarious  transactions, — and  something  told 
him  that  Cephas  Redberry  would  put  a  short,  sharp 
stop  to  any  breathing  at  all  on  his  part  the  instant  he 
laid  eyes  on  him.  He  was  not  afraid  of  Barry  Lapelle 
but  he  was  in  deadly  terror  of  Redberry.  The  more 
he  thought  of  Ceph  being  landed  in  the  same  jail  with 
him,  the  longer  the  goose  feathers  grew  on  his  shrink 
ing  spine.  So  he  left  the  Captain  out  of  it  altogether, 
— indeed,  he  gave  him  a  perfectly  clean  bill  of  health. 

Along  about  dusk  that  evening  a  crowd  began  to 
collect  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  jail.  Martin,  peer 
ing  from  behind  a  barred  window,  was  not  long  in 
grasping  the  significance  of  this  ominous  gathering. 
He  was  the  only  inmate  of  the  "calaboose";  therefore, 

he  was  in  no  doubt  as  to  the  identity  of  the  person  to 

338 


whom  so  many  different  terms  of  opprobrium  were 
being  applied  by  certain  loud-voiced  citizens  in  the 
crowd.  He  also  gathered  from  remarks  coming  up  to 
the  window  that  the  person  referred  to  stood  in  grave 
danger  of  being  "skinned  alive,"  "swung  to  a  limb," 
"horsewhipp.«d  till  he  can't  stand,"  "rode  on  a  rail," 
"ham-strung,"  "drownded,"  "hung  up  by  the  thumbs," 
"dogged  out  o'  town,"  "peppered  with  bird-shot," 
"filled  with  buckshot,"  and  numerous  other  unpleasant 
alternatives,  no  one  of  which  was  conducive  to  the  peace 
of  mind. 

As  the  evening  wore  on,  Martin  became  more  and 
more  convinced  that  his  life  wasn't  worth  a  pinch  of 
salt,  and  so  began  to  pray  loudly  and  lustily.  The 
crowd  had  increased  to  alarming  proportions.  In 
the  light  of  torches  and  bonfires  he  recognized  men 
from  far-off  Grand  Prairie,  up  to  the  northwest  of 
town.  Wagons  rumbled  past  the  jail  and  court  house 
and  were  lost  in  the  darkness  of  the  streets  beyond. 
He  was  astonished  to  see  that  most  of  these  vehicles 
contained  women  and  children,  and  many  of  them  were 
loaded  high  with  household  goods.  This,  thought 
Martin,  was  the  apex  of  attention.  People  were  com 
ing  from  the  four  corners  of  the  world  to  witness  his 
execution !  Evidently  it  was  to  be  an  affair  that  every 
householder  thought  his  women-folk  and  the  children 
ought  to  see.  Some  men  might  have  been  gratified  by 
all  this  interest,  but  not  Martin.  He  began  to  increase 
the  fervor  of  his  prayers  by  inserting,  here  and  there, 
hair-raising  oaths, — not  bravely  or  with  the  courage 
of  the  defiant,  but  because  all  other  words  failed  him 
in  his  extremity. 

He  had  no  means  of  knowing,  of  course,  that  he  was 
dividing  the  honours,  so  to  speak,  with  another  and 


340  VIOLA    GWYN 

far  more  imposing  rascal, — the  terrible  Black  Hawk. 
How  was  he  to  know,  locked  up  in  jail,  that  all  evening 
long  panic-stricken  people  from  the  distant  and  thinly- 
settled  prairies  were  piling  into  town  because  of  the 
report  that  bands  of  Black  Hawk's  warriors  had  been 
seen  by  reputable  settlers  along  the  upper^edge  of  the 
Prairie? 

Like  reports  had  been  filtering  into  town  for  sev 
eral  days,  but  not  much  credence  had  been  given  them. 
Indian  scares  were  not  uncommon,  and  for  the  most 
part  people  had  scoffed  at  them.  But  now  there  was 
an  actual  threat  from  the  powerful  Black  Hawk,  whose 
headquarters  were  up  along  the  Rock  River,  in  the 
northern  part  of  Illinois.  The  chieftain  had  at  last 
thrown  down  the  gauntlet;  he  had  refused  to  recog 
nize  the  transfer  of  lands  and  rights  as  laid  down  by 
the  Government,  and  had  openly  announced  his  inten 
tion  to  fight.  Already  troops  from  the  forts  were  on 
the  move,  and  there  was  talk  of  the  State  militia  being 
called  out.  Some  of  the  leading  spirits  in  Lafayette 
had  been  moved  to  organize  a  local  company. 

Naturally,  Martin  Hawk  knew  nothing  of  all  this. 
He  knew,  through  Simon  Braley,  that  Indian  troubles 
were  bound  to  come,  but  how  was  he  to  know  that  red 
skins  in  warpaint  had  been  seen  on  the  Grand  Prairie, 
or  that  he  was  not  the  only  subject  of  conversation? 
AH  he  knew  was  that  if  the  Lord  didn't  take  a  hand 
pretty  soon  he  would  be —  Well,  it  was  useless  to  fix 
his  mind  on  any  particular  form  of  destruction,  so 
many  and  so  varied  were  the  kinds  being  disputa- 
tiously  considered  by  the  people  in  the  street. 

Suddenly  the  sound  of  fife  and  drum  smote  upon 
his  ear,  coming  from  somewhere  up  the  street.  He 
huddled  down  in  a  corner  and  began  to  moan.  He 


FLIGHT    OF    MARTIN    HAWK     341 

knew  the  meaning  of  that  signal-call.  They  were  or 
ganizing  for  a  rush  upon  the  jail, — an  irresistible, 
overwhelming  charge  that  would  sweep  all  opposition 
before  it.  Then  he  heard  the  shuffling  of  many  feet, 
loud  exclamations  and  an  occasional  cheer.  Finally 
he  screwed  up  the  courage  for  another  cautious  peep 
through  the  bars.  The  crowd  was  moving  off  up  the 
street.  A  small  group  remained  undecided  near  a  bon 
fire  in  the  court  house  yard.  One  of  these  men  held  a 
long  rope  in  his  hand,  and  seemed  argumentative. 

Martin  listened  with  all  ears,  trying  to  catch  what 
was  being  said.  What  an  infernal  noise  that  fife  and 
drum  were  making!  At  last  the  little  knot  of  men 
moved  away  from  the  fire,  coming  toward  the  window. 
Martin,  being  a  wary  rascal,  promptly  ducked  his 
head,  but  kept  his  ears  open. 

"It's  a  trick,  that's  what  it  is,"  he  heard  some  one 
growl.  "A  trick  to  get  us  away  from  the  jail.  They 
know  we'll  get  him,  sure  as  God  made  little  apples,  so 
they've  fixed  this  up  to — " 

"Well,  what  if  it  is  a  trick?"  broke  in  another.  "It 
ain't  going  to  work.  The  crowd'll  be  back  here  again 
inside  of  ten  minutes  an'  all  the  sheriffs  an'  constables 
in  the  State  can't  stop  us  from  taking  him  out  an' 
stringin'  him  up." 

"We  might  as  well  go  and  see  what's  up,"  said  an 
other.  "I  guess  he's  where  he'll  keep.  He'll  be  here 
when  we  come  back,  Bill.  He  can't  get  out  till  we 
open  the  door,  so  what's  the  use  cussin'  about  ten  or 
fifteen  minutes'  delay?  Come  on!  I  don't  take  any 
stock  in  this  talk  about  Indians,  but,  great  snakes,  if 
they  want  to  get  up  a  company  to  go  out  and— 

The  rest  of  the  remark  was  lost  to  Martin  when  the 
group  turned  the  corner  of  the  jail. 


342  VIOLA    GWYN 

"Ten  or  fifteen  minutes,"  he  groaned.  In  ten  or 
fifteen  minutes  the  whole  town  would  be  out  there, 
breaking  down  the  door — the  work  of  a  few  seconds. 
He  remembered  hearing  people  laugh  and  joke  about 
the  new  jail.  No  less  a  person  than  Cap'  Redberry 
had  said,  after  a  casual  inspection  of  the  calaboose, 
that  if  that  was  what  they  called  a  jail  he'd  hate  to 
be  inside  of  it  if  a  woodpecker  started  to  peckin*  at  it, 
'cause  if  such  a  thing  happened  the  whole  blamed  she 
bang  would  cave  in  and  like  as  not  hurt  him  considera 
ble.  And  Cap*  was  not  the  only  one  who  spoke  de 
risively  of  the  new  jail.  Ed  Bloker  declared  he  had 
quit  walkin'  past  it  on  his  way  home  from  the  grocery 
because  he  was  in  mortal  terror  of  staggerin'  up  against 
it  and  knockin'  it  all  to  smash.  Of  course,  Martin 
knew  that  it  was  not  as  bad  as  all  that,  but,  even  so,  it 
could  not  hold  out  for  more  than  a  minute  if  some  one 
began  pounding  at  the  door  with  a  sledge-hammer. 

There  were  two  rooms,  or  compartments,  to  the  jail: 
a  little  ante-room  and  the  twelve-by-sixteen  foot 
"cage,"  of  which  he  was  the  sole  occupant.  A  single 
cornhusk  mattress  had  been  put  in  for  him  that  after 
noon.  He  never  seemed  quite  able  to  fix  its  position 
in  his  mind,  a  circumstance  that  caused  him  to  stumble 
over  it  time  and  again  as  he  tramped  restlessly  about 
the  place  in  the  darkness. 

Suddenly  he  stopped  as  if  shot.  A  tremendous  idea 
struck  him,  and  for  a  moment  his  head  spun  dizzily. 
If  it  was  so  blamed  easy  to  break  into  the  jail,  why 
should  it  be  so  all-fired  difficult  to  break  out  of  it? 
Why,  he  hadn't  even  tried  the  door,  or  the  bars  in  the 
window ;  now  that  he  thought  of  it,  the  grate  in  the 
south  window  had  appeared  to  be  a  little  shaky.  In 
spired  by  a  wild,  alluring  hope,  he  sprang  over  to  the 


FLIGHT    OF    MARTIN    HAWK     343 

window  and  gripped  the  thin  iron  bars;  with  all  his 
might  and  main  he  jerked,  bracing  his  feet  against  the 
wall.  No  use!  It  would  come  just  so  far  and  no 
farther.  He  tried  the  other  window,  with  even  less 
encouraging  results.  In  eight  or  ten  minutes  now,  the 
crowd  would  be, — he  leaped  to  the  barred  door.  It, 
too,  resisted  his  crazy  strength.  The  huge  padlock 
on  the  other  side  clattered  tauntingly  against  the  grat 
ing,  but  that  was  all.  All  the  while  he  was  grunting 
and  whining:  "If  I  ever  get  out  of  this,  it'll  take  a 
streak  o'  greased  lightnin'  to  ketch  me.  Oh,  Lordy ! 
That  drum's  gettin'  closer!  They're  comin'!  If  I 
ever  get  out  of  this,  nobody'll  ever  see  me  closer'n  a 
hundred  mile  o'  this  here  town, — never  as  long  as  I  live. 
Gimme  a  half  hour's  start  an' —  Jehosophat !" 

He  had  shoved  a  trembling  hand  between  the  bars 
and  was  fumbling  with  the  padlock.  His  ejaculation 
was  due  to  a  most  incredible  discovery.  Some  one  had 
forgotten  to  take  the  key  out  of  the  padlock!  He 
laughed  shrilly,  witlessly.  Twenty  seconds  later  he 
was  out  in  the  little  anteroom  or  vestibule,  panting 
and  still  chortling.  The  outer  door  opened  readily 
to  the  lifting  of  the  latch.  He  peeped  out  cautiously, 
warily.  The  square  was  deserted  save  for  a  few  men 
hurrying  along  the  street  toward  the  drill  ground  up 
beyond  Horton's  tanyard, — where  the  drum  and  fife 
were  playing  and  men  were  shouting  loudly. 

Thereupon  Martin  Hawk  did  the  incomprehensible 
thing.  He  squared  his  brawny  shoulders,  set  his  hat 
rakishly  over  one  ear,  and  sauntered  out  of  the  jail, 
calmly  stopping  to  latch  the  door — and  even  to  rattle 
it  to  make  sure  that  it  had  caught ! 

He  was  far  too  cunning  to  dart  around  the  corner 
and  bolt  for  safety.  That  would  have  been  the  worst 


344  VIOLA    GWYN 

kind  of  folly.  Instead,  he  strode  briskly  off  in  the 
direction  from  whence  came  the  strains  of  martial 
music !  So  much  for  the  benefit  of  watchful,  suspicious 
eyes.  But  as  he  turned  the  corner  of  Baker's  store 
his  whole  demeanour  changed.  He  was  off  like  a  fright 
ened  rabbit,  and  as  soft-footedly.  He  ran  as  the  hunts 
man  or  the  Indian  runs, — almost  soundlessly,  like  the 
wind  breezing  over  dead  leaves  or  through  the  tops  of 
reeds.  Three  men  stepped  out  from  behind  a  wagon 
on  the  far  side  of  the  square.  The  flare  of  a  bonfire 
reached  dimly  to  the  corner  around  which  the  fugitive 
had  scurried.  One  of  the  men  gave  vent  to  a  subdued 
snort  and  then  spat  hurriedly  and  copiously. 

"We'll  never  see  hide  nor  hair  of  him  again,"  quoth 
he.  "He  won't  stop  running  till  daybreak.  I  guess 
you'd  better  wait  about  ten  minutes,  Jake,  and  then  fire 
a  few  shots.  That'll  put  new  life  into  him.  Course, 
a  lot  of  blamed  fools  will  cuss  the  daylights  out  of  me 
for  letting  him  get  away  right  under  my  nose,  and  all 
that,  but  let  'em  talk.  He's  gone  for  good,  you  can 
bet  on  that, — and  the  county's  lucky  to  get  rid  of  him 
so  cheaply." 

"I  guess  you're  right,  Sheriff,"  agreed  one  of  his 
companions.  "From  all  I  hear,  Mrs.  Gwyn  would  have 
a  hard  time  provin'  it  was  him  as  stole  her — " 

"Supposin'  she  did  prove  it,  what  then?"  broke  in 
the  high  sheriff  of  the  bailiwick.  "The  county  would 
have  to  feed  him  for  a  couple  of  months  or  so  and 
then  turn  him  loose  again  to  go  right  back  to  stealing, 
same  as  before.  The  best  way  to  punish  a  thief,  ac- 
cordin'  to  my  notion,  is  to  keep  him  everlastingly  on 
the  jump,  scared  to  death  to  show  his  face  anywheres 
and  always  hatin'  to  go  to  sleep  for  fear  he'll  wake  up 
and  find  somebody  pointin'  a  pistol  at  him  and  sayin,' 


FLIGHT    OF    MARTIN    HAWK     345 

'Well,  I  got  you  at  last,  dang  ye.'  Besides,  lockin5 
Mart  up  isn't  going  to  bring  back  Mrs.  Gwyn's  sheep, 
is  it?" 

"When  that  gal  of  his  tells  her  story  in  court  to 
morrow,"  advanced  the  third  member  of  the  group, 
"there'll  be  plenty  of  people  in  this  town  that  won't 
be  put  off  a  second  time  by  any  fife  and  drum 
shinanigan." 

"Anyhow,"  said  the  sheriff,  "I  didn't  want  to  have 
the  blamed  skunk  on  my  mind  while  we're  organizin'  the 
company.  It's  bad  enough  havin'  to  go  out  and  fight 
Indians  without  worryin*  all  the  time  I'm  away  about 
whether  anybody  back  here  has  had  sense  enough  to 
keep  Martin  from  starvin'  to  death.  I  guess  we'd 
better  mosey  along  up  to  the  drill  ground,  boys.  Mar 
tin's  got  into  the  bushes  by  this  time,  and  if  I'm  any 
kind  of  a  guesser  he  ain't  dawdlin'  along  smellin*  every 
spring  flower  he  comes  across." 

"Don't  you  think  you'd  better  go  over  an*  take  a 
look  around  the  jail  first?" 

"What  for?     There  ain't  anybody  in  it." 

"No,  but  like  as  not  the  dog-gasted  whelp  run  off 
with  that  padlock,  an'  we'd  ought  to  know  it  before  he 
gets  too  big  a  start.  Padlocks  cost  money,"  explained 
the  other,  with  a  dry  chuckle  and  a  dig  in  the  sheriffs 
ribs. 

"So  do  prisoners,"  was  the  rejoinder  of  this  re 
markable  sheriff. 

And  thus  it  came  to  pass  that  between  the  sheriff! 
and  Kenneth  Gwynne  and  Moll  Hawk,  the  county  got 
rid  of  three  iniquitous  individuals.  One  rode  forth  in 
broad  daylight  on  a  matchless  thoroughbred;  another 
stole  off  like  a  weasel  in  the  night,  and  the  third  took 
passage  on  the  Ship  that  Never  Returns. 


CHAPTER  XXVH 

THE    TRIAL    OF    MOLL    HAWK 

THE  trial  of  Moll  Hawk  was  a  brief  one. 
"Judge"  Billings,  as  foreman  of  the  jury,  asked 
permission  of  the  Court  to  make  a  few  remarks 
before  the  taking  of  testimony  began. 

"Your  honour,  this  here  jury  got  together  last  night 
and  sort  of  talked  things  over  while  Mr.  Benbridge 
and  other  patriotic  citizens  of  Lafayette  were  engaged 
in  organizing  a  number  of  noble  and  brave-hearted 
gentlemen  into  a  company  of  soldiers  to  give  battle  to 
the  bloodthirsty  red  man  who  is  about  to  swoop  down 
upon  us,  with  tommyhawk  and  knife  and  rifle,  to 
ravage  our  lands  and  pillage  our  women — er — I  mean 
pillage  our  lands  and — er — so  forth.  As  I  was  saying, 
your  honour,  we  talked  it  over  and  seeing  as  how  we 
have  all  enlisted  in  Mr.  Benbridge's  troop  and  he  sort 
of  thought  we'd  better  begin  drilling  as  soon  as  possi 
ble,  and  also  seeing  as  how  this  here  trial  is  attractin* 
a  good  deal  of  attention  at  a  time  when  we  ought  to  be 
thinkin'  of  the  safety  of  our  wives  and  children, — if 
we  have  any, — we  came  to  the  conclusion  to  address 
you,  sir,  with  all  respect,  and  suggest  that  you  in 
struct  the  counsel  on  both  sides  to  be  as  lenient  as 
possible  with  the  jury. 

"This  here  innocent  girl's  father  broke  out  of  jail 
and  got  away.  As  far  as  this  here  jury  knows  he  ain't 
likely  ever  to  come  back,  so,  for  the  time  being  at  least, 

there  don't  seem  to  be  anybody  we  can  hang  for  the 

346 


THE    TRIAL    OF    MOLL    HAWK     347 

crime  with  which  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  is  charged. 
This  jury  was  picked  with  a  great  deal  of  care  by  the 
sheriff  and  is,  I  am  reliably  informed,  entirely  satis 
factory  to  both  sides  of  the  case. 

"In  view  of  the  fact  that  Black  Hawk's  warriors  are 
reported  to  have  been  seen  within  twenty  miles  of  our 
beautiful  little  city,  and  also  in  view  of  the  additional 
fact  that  Mrs.  Rachel  Gwyn,  one  of  our  foremost 
citizens  and  taxpayers,  has  recently  informed  me, — 
and  your  honour  also,  I  believe,  in  my  presence, — that 
she  intends  to  give  this  poor  girl  a  home  as  soon  as 
she  is  lawfully  discharged  by  the  jury  as  not  guilty, 
we,  the  jury,  implore  your  honour  to  keep  an  eye  on 
the  clock.  As  we  understand  the  case,  there  were  only 
two  witnesses  to  the  killing  of  the  villain  against  whom 
this  young  woman  fought  so  desperately  in  self- 
defence.  One  of  'em  is  here  in  this  courtroom.  The 
other  is  dead  and  buried.  It  is  now  ten  minutes  past 
nine.  We,  the  jury,  would  like  for  you  to  inform  the 
counsel  on  both  sides  that  at  precisely  ten  o'clock  we 
are  going  to  render  a  verdict,  because  at  a  quarter-past 
ten  the  majority  of  us  have  to  attend  a  company  drill. 
The  lawyer  for  the  prisoner  enlisted  last  night  as  a 
private  in  our  company,  and  so  did  the  prosecuting 
attorney." 

"This  is  a  most  unusual  and  unprecedented  action 
on  the  part  of  a  jury,"  said  the  Court  gravely.  "How 
ever,  in  view  of  the  extraordinary  circumstances,  I 
feel  that  we  should  be  as  expeditious  as  possible  in 
disposing  of  the  case  on  trial.  Gentlemen,  you  have 
heard  the  remarks  of  the  foreman  of  the  jury.  Have 
either  of  you  any  reason  for  objecting  to  the  sugges 
tion  he  has  made?  Very  well,  then;  we  will  proceed 
with  the  trial  of  Mary  Hawk,  charged  with  murder  in 


348  VIOLA    GWYN 

the  first  degree.  Call  your  first  witness,  Mr.  Prose 
cutor." 

The  little  courtroom  was  jammed  to  its  capacity. 
Hundreds,  unable  to  gain  admission,  crowded  about  the 
entrance  and  filled  the  square.  The  town  was  in  the 
throes  of  a  vast  excitement,  what  with  the  trial,  the 
Indian  uprising  in  the  north,  the  escape  of  Martin 
Hawk  and  the  flight  of  Barry  Lapelle,  hitherto  re 
garded  as  a  rake  but  not  even  suspected  of  actual  dis 
honesty.  The  Paul  Revere,  with  Captain  Redberry  in 
charge,  had  got  away  at  daybreak,  loaded  to  the  rails 
with  foot-loose  individuals  who  suddenly  had  decided 
to  try  their  fortunes  elsewhere  rather  than  remain  in 
a  district  likely  to  be  overrun  by  savages. 

Moll  Hawk  sat  in  front  of  the  judge's  table  and 
at  her  side  was  Kenneth  Gwynne.  Mrs.  Gwyn  and 
Viola  occupied  seats  on  a  bench  near  one  of  the  win 
dows,  facing  the  jury.  The  prisoner  was  frightened. 
She  was  stiff  and  uncomfortable  in  the  new  dress  the 
sheriff's  wife  had  selected  for  her.  Her  black  hair  was 
neatly  brushed  and  coiled  in  two  thick  lobs  which  hung 
down  over  her  ears.  Her  deep-set  eyes  darted  rest 
lessly,  even  warily  about  her  as  she  sat  there  in  the 
midst  of  this  throng  of  strange,  stern-faced  men.  Now 
and  then  they  went  appealingly  to  Mrs.  Gwyn  or 
Viola  or  to  the  sheriff's  wife,  and  always  they  seemed  to 
be  asking:  "What  are  they  going  to  do  to  me?'* 

The  prosecuting  attorney,  a  young  man  of  slender 
experience  but  chivalrous  instincts,  solemnly  an 
nounced  that  he  had  but  two  witnesses  to  examine 
and  then  he  was  through.  He  called  the  undertaker 
to  the  stand. 

"In  as  few  words  as  possible,  tell  the  jury  who  it 
was  that  you  buried  yesterday  afternoon." 


THE    TRIAL    OF    MOLL    HAWK     349 

"Jasper  Suggs." 

"Was  he  dead?" 

"He  was." 

"That's  all,  your  honour." 

"Any  questions,  Mr.  Gwynne?"  inquired  the  judge. 

"None,  your  honour." 

"Call  your  next  witness,  Mr.  Prosecutor." 

"Mr.  Sheriff,  will  you  take  the  stand  for  a  moment? 
Did  you  see  the  defendant  along  about  four  o'clock 
yesterday  morning?" 

"I  did." 

"State  where." 

"At  her  father's  cabin." 

"State  what  had  happened  there  prior  to  your  ar 
rival,  if  you  know." 

"This  defendant  had  had  a  little  difficulty  with  the 
corpse,  and  he  was  dead  on  the  floor  when  we  got  there." 

"From  a  knife  wound?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Who  inflicted  that  wound,  if  you  know?" 

"Miss  Mary  Hawk." 

"You  are  sure  about  that,  Mr.  Sheriff?" 

"Pos-i-tively." 

"How  can  you  be  sure  of  that,  sir,  if  you  did  not 
witness  the  deed  with  your  own  eyes?" 

The  Court  rapped  on  the  table. 

"This  is  your  own  witness,  Mr.  Prosecutor.  Are  you 
trying  to  cross-examine  him,  or  to  discredit  his  testi 
mony  ?" 

"I  beg  your  honour's  pardon." 

Kenneth  arose.  "We  will  admit  that  Jasper  Suggs 
came  to  his  death  at  the  hands  of  the  defendant." 

"In  that  case,"  said  his  gentlemanly  adversary,  "the 
State  rests." 


350  VIOLA    GWYN 

"Judge"  Billings  was  heard  audibly  to  remark: 
"Give  'era  an  inch  and  they  take  a  mile." 

"Order  in  the  court!  Call  your  first  witness,  Mr. 
Gwynne." 

"Take  this  chair,  if  you  please,  Miss  Hawk.  Hold 
up  your  right  hand  and  be  sworn.  Now,  be  good 
enough  to  answer  the  questions  I  put  to  you,  clearly 
and  distinctly,  so  that  the  jury  may  hear." 

After  a  few  preliminary  questions  he  said :  "Now  tell 
the  Court  and  the  jury  exactly  what  happened,  begin 
ning  with  the  return  of  your  father  and  Jasper  Suggs 
from  a  trip  to  town.  Don't  be  afraid,  Miss — er — Moll. 
Tell  the  jury,  in  your  own  words,  just  what  took  place 
between  the  time  you  first  heard  Suggs  and  your  father 
talking  in  the  cabin  and  the  arrival  of  the  sheriff  and 
his  men." 

It  lacked  just  three  minutes  of  ten  o'clock  when  she 
finished  her  story.  It  had  been  delivered  haltingly  and 
with  visible  signs  of  embarrassment  at  times,  but  it  was 
a  straightforward,  honest  recital  of  facts. 

"Any  questions,  Mr.  Prosecutor?" 

"None,  your  honour.  The  State  does  not  desire  to 
present  argument.  It  is  content  to  submit  its  case  to 
the  jury  without  argument,  asking  only  that  a  verdict 
be  rendered  fairly  and  squarely  upon  the  evidence  as 
introduced.  All  we  ask  is  justice." 

"Any  argument,  Mr.  Gwynne?" 

"None,  your  honour.  The  defence  is  satisfied  to 
leave  its  case  entirely  in  the  hands  of  the  jury." 

"Gentlemen  of  the  jury,"  said  the  Court,  glancing 
at  the  clock,  "the  Court  will  omit  its  instructions  to 
you,  merely  advising  you  that  if  you  find  the  prisoner 
guilty  as  charged  your  verdict  must  be  murder  in  the 
first  degree,  the  penalty  for  which  is  death." 


THE    TRIAL    OF    MOLL    HAWK     351 

"Judge"  Billings  leaned  over  and  picked  up  his  hat 
from  the  floor.  Then  he  arose  and  announced : 

"We,  the  jury,  find  the  defendant  not  guilty." 

"Prisoner  discharged,"  said  the  Court,  arising. 
"The  Court  desires  to  thank  the  jurors  for  the  close 
attention  you  have  paid  to  the  evidence  in  this  case  and 
for  the  prompt  and  just  verdict  you  have  returned. 
Court  stands  adjourned." 

Later  on  Moll  Hawk  walked  up  the  hill  with  Mrs. 
Gwyn  and  Viola.  Very  few  words  had  passed  between 
them  since  they  left  the  curious  but  friendly  crowd  in 
the  public  square.  Finally  Moll's  dubious  thoughts 
found  expression  in  words,  breaking  in  upon  the  de 
tached  reflections  of  her  two  companions. 

"I  don't  see  why  they  let  me  off  like  that,  Mis' 
Gwyn.  I  killed  him,  didn't  I?" 

"Yes,  Moll, — but  the  law  does  not  convict  a  person 
who  kills  in  self-defence.  Didn't  you  understand 
that?" 

"But  supposin'  I  wuz  starvin'  to  death  an'  I  stole 
a  ham  like  Bud  Gridley  did  last  fall  when  his  pa  an' 
ma  wuz  sick,  wouldn't  that  be  self-defence?  They  put 
him  in  jail  fer  two  months,  jest  fer  stealin*  a  ham 
when  he  hadn't  had  nothin'  to  eat  fer  three  days, — bein' 
crippled  an'  couldn't  work.  Wuz  that  fair?" 

"Don't  forget,  Moll,"  said  Rachel  ironically,  "that 
Henry  Butts  valued  his  ham  at  seventy-five  cents." 

"Anyhow,  hit  don't  seem  right  an'  fair,"  said  Moll. 
"I  didn't  have  to  kill  Jasper  to  save  my  life.  I  could 
ha'  saved  it  without  killin'  him." 

"You  did  perfectly  right  in  killing  him,  Moll,"  broke 
in  Viola  warmly.  "I  would  have  done  the  same  thing 
if  I  had  been  in  your  place." 

Moll  thought  over  this  for  a  few  seconds.     "Well, 


352  VIOLA    GWYN 

maybe  you  might  have  had  to  do  it,  Miss  Violy,  if  them 
fellers  had  got  away  with  you  as  they  wuz  plannin' 
to  do,"  she  said. 

Silence  fell  between  them  again,  broken  after  a  while 
by  Moll. 

"They'll  never  ketch  Pap,"  she  said.  "I  guess  I'll 
never  lay  eyes  on  him  ag'in.  I  wuz  jest  wonderin* 
what's  goin'  to  become  of  his  dogs.  Do  you  suppose 
anybody'll  take  the  trouble  to  feed  'em?" 

Toby  Moxler,  Jack  Trentman's  dealer,  accosted 
Kenneth  Gwynne  at  the  conclusion  of  the  first  drill. 

"Jack  found  this  here  letter  down  at  the  shanty  this 
morning,  Mr.  Gwynne.  It's  addressed  to  you,  so  he 
.asked  me  to  hand  it  to  you  when  I  saw  you." 

Kenneth  knew  at  once  who  the  letter  was  from.  He 
stuck  it  into  his  coat  pocket,  unopened. 

"Tell  Jack  that  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  him,"  he 
said,  and  walked  away. 

When  he  was  safely  out  of  hearing  distance,  Toby 
turned  to  the  man  at  his  side  and  remarked: 

"If  what  Barry  Lapelle  told  me  and  Jack  Trent- 
man  yesterday  morning  is  true,  there'll  be  the  dog- 
gonedest  scandal  this  town  ever  heard  of." 

"What  did  he  tell  you?"  inquired  his  neighbour 
eagerly. 

"It's  against  my  principles  to  talk  about  women," 
snapped  Toby,  glaring  at  the  man  as  if  deeply  insulted. 
Seeing  the  disappointment  in  the  other's  face,  he  soft 
ened  a  little :  "  'Specially  about  widders,"  he  went  so 
far  as  to  explain.  "You  keep  your  shirt  on,  Elmer, 
and  wait.  And  when  it  does  come  out,  you'll  be  the 
most  surprised  man  in  town." 

Kenneth  did  not  open  Barry's  letter  until  he  reached 


THE    TRIAL    OF    MOLL    HAWK     353 

his  office.  His  face  darkened  as  he  read  but  cleared 
almost  instantly.  He  even  smiled  disdainfully  as  he 
tore  the  sheet  into  small  pieces  and  stuffed  them  into 
his  pocket  against  the  time  when  he  could  consign  them 
to  the  fire  in  his  kitchen  stove. 

"Kenneth  Gwynne,  Esquire. 

"Sir:  Upon  receipt  of  your  discurtious  and  cow- 
erdly  reply  to  my  challenge  I  realized  the  futility  of 
expecting  on  your  part  an  honourable  and  gentlemanly 
settlement  of  our  difficulties.  My  natural  inclination 
was  to  seek  you  out  and  fource  you  to  fight  but  advice 
of  friends  prevailed.  I  have  decided  to  make  it  my 
business  to  verrify  the  story  wh  has  come  to  my  ears 
regarding  the  Gwynne  and  Carter  families.  In  pursuit 
of  this  intention  I  am  starting  immediately  for  your 
old  home  town  in  Kentucky  where  I  am  convinced  there 
still  remain  a  number  of  people  who  will  be  able  to 
give  me  all  the  facts.  If  I  was  misled  into  making 
statements  that  were  untrue  in  my  last  meeting  with 
your  sister  I  shall  most  humbly  apologize  to  her.  If 
on  the  contrary  I  find  that  what  I  said  to  her  was  true 
I  will  make  it  my  business  to  bring  all  the  facts  to  the 
notice  of  the  people  of  Lafayette  and  let  them  decide 
what  to  do  in  the  matter.  In  any  case  I  shall  return 
in  about  a  month  or  six  weeks  at  wh  time  I  shall  renew 
my  challenge  to  you  with  the  sincere  hope  that  you 
may  accept  it  and  that  I  may  have  the  belated  pleasure 
of  putting  a  bullet  through  your  cowerdly  heart.  I 
must  however  in  the  meantime  refuse  to  sign  myself 
"Yours  respectfully 

"BARRY  LAPELLE." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE    TRYSTING    PLACE    OF    THOUGHTS 

THE  turmoil  and  excitement  over  the  Indian  out 
break  increased  during  the  day.  A  constant 
stream  of  refugees,  mostly  old  men,  women  and 
children,  poured  into  Lafayette  from  regions  west  of 
the  Wabash.  By  nightfall  fully  three  hundred  of  them 
were  being  cared  for  by  the  people  of  the  town,  and 
more  were  coming.  Shortly  after  noon  a  mounted  scout 
rode  in  from  Warren  County  with  the  word  that  the 
militia  of  his  county  was  preparing  to  start  off  at  once 
to  meet  the  advancing  hordes ;  he  brought  in  the  report 
that  farther  north  the  frontier  was  being  abandoned 
by  the  settlers  and  that  massacres  already  had  oc 
curred.  There  was  also  a  well-supported  rumour  that 
a  portion  of  the  Illinois  militia,  some  two  hundred  and 
fifty  men  in  all,  had  been  routed  on  Hickory  Creek  by 
Black  Hawk's  invincible  warriors,  with  appalling  losses 
to  the  whites.  He  bore  a  stirring  message  from  his 
commanding  officer,  urging  the  men  of  Tippecanoe  to 
rouse  themselves  and  join  Warren  County  troops  in 
an  immediate  movement  to  repel  or  at  least  to  check 
the  Sacs  and  Miamis  and  Pottawattomies  who  were 
swarming  over  the  prairies  like  locusts. 

The  appearance  of  this  messenger,  worn  and  spent 
after  his  long  ride,  created  a  profound  sensation.  Here 
at  last  was  official  verification  of  the  stories  brought 

in  by  the  panic-stricken  refugees ;  here  was  something 

354 


THE    TRYSTING    PLACE         355 

that  caused  the  whole  town  suddenly  to  awake  to  the 
fact  that  a  real  menace  existed,  and  that  it  was  not, 
after  all,  another  of  those  rattle-brained  "scares"  which 
were  constantly  cropping  up. 

For  months  there  had  been  talk  of  old  Black  Hawk 
and  his  Sacs  going  on  the  warpath  over  the  occupation 
of  their  lands  in  Northern  Illinois  by  the  swift-ad 
vancing,  ruthless  whites.  The  old  Sac,  or  Sauk,  chief 
tain  had  long  threatened  to  resist  by  force  of  arms  this 
violation  of  the  treaty.  He  had  been  so  long,  however, 
in  even  making  a  start  to  carry  out  his  threat  that  the 
more  enlightened  pioneers  had  ceased  to  take  any  stock 
in  his  spoutings. 

The  Free  Press,  Lafayette's  only  newspaper,  had 
from  time  to  time  printed  news  seeping  out  of  the 
Northwest  by  means  of  carrier  or  voyageur ;  their  tales 
bore  out  the  reports  furnished  by  Federal  and  State 
authorities  on  the  more  or  less  unsettled  conditions. 
There  was,  for  example,  the  extremely  disquieting  story 
that  Black  Hawk,  on  his  return  from  a  hunting  trip 
west  of  the  Mississippi,  had  travelled  far  eastward 
across  Northern  Indiana  to  seek  the  advice  of  the  Brit 
ish  commander  in  Canada.  Not  only  was  the  story  of 
this  pilgrimage  true,  but  the  fact  was  afterward  defi 
nitely  established  that  the  British  official  advised  the 
chief  to  make  war  on  the  white  settlers, — this  being 
late  in  1831,  nearly  twenty  years  after  the  close  of  the 
War  of  1812.  Many  of  Black  Hawk's  warriors  had 
served  under  Tecumseh  in  the  last  war  with  England, 
and  they  still  were  rabid  British  sympathizers. 

Amidst  the  greatest  enthusiasm  and  excitement,  the 
men  of  Lafayette  organized  the  "Guards,"  a  company 
some  three  hundred  strong.  After  several  days  of  in 
tensive  and,  for  a  time,  ludicrous  "drilling,"-they  were 


356  VIOLA    GWYN 

ready  and  eager  to  ride  out  into  the  terrorized  North 
west. 

Kenneth  Gwynne  was  a  private  in  "The  Guards." 

During  the  thrilling  days  of  preparation  for  the 
expedition,  he  saw  little  of  the  women  next  door. 
Doubtless  for  reasons  of  their  own,  Viola  and  her 
mother  maintained  a  strange  and  persistent  aloofness. 
It  was  not  until  the  evening  before  the  departure  of  the 
"Guards"  that  he  took  matters  into  his  own  hands  and 
walked  over  to  Rachel's  house. 

The  few  glimpses  he  had  had  of  Viola  during  these 
busy  days  and  nights  served  not  only  to  increase  his 
ardent  craving  for  her  but  caused  him  the  most  acute 
misery  as  well.  Utter  despond  had  fallen  upon  him. 

It  was  significant  of  her  new  attitude  toward  life 
that  she  had  cast  aside  the  sombre  habiliments  of 
mourning.  She  was  now  appearing  in  bright,  though 
not  gay,  colours, — unmistakable  evidence  of  her  de 
cision  to  abandon  all  pretence  of  grief  for  the  man 
she  had  looked  upon  for  so  many  years  as  her  father. 

There  was  a  strange,  new  vivacity  in  her  manner, 
too, — something  that  hurt  rather  than  cheered  him. 
He  heard  her  singing  about  the  house, — gay,  larksome 
little  snatches, — and  she  whistled  merrily  as  she  worked 
in  the  garden.  Somehow  her  very  light-heartedness 
added  to  his  despair.  What  right  had  she  to  be  happy 
and  gay  and  cheerful  whilst  he  was  so  miserable?  Had 
he  not  told  her  in  so  many  words  that  he  loved  her? 
Did  that  mean  nothing  to  her?  Why  should  she  sing 
and  whistle  in  her  own  domain  when  she  must  have 
known  that  he  was  suffering  in  his,  not  twenty  rods 
away?  He  was  conscious  at  times  of  a  sense  of  injury, 
and  as  the  time  drew  near  for  his  departure  without 


THE    TRYSTING    PLACE         357 

so  much  as  a  sign  of  regret  or  even  interest  on  her 
part,  this  feeling  deepened  into  resentment. 

He  was  very  stiff  and  formal  as  he  approached  the 
porch  on  which  Viola  and  her  mother  were  seated,  en 
joying  the  cool  evening  breeze  that  had  sprung  up  at 
the  end  of  the  hot  and  sultry  day.  A  strange  woman 
and  two  small  children,  refugees  from  the  Grand 
Prairie,  had  been  given  shelter  by  Mrs.  Gwyn,  but  they 
had  already  gone  to  bed. 

"We  are  off  at  daybreak,"  he  said,  standing  before 
them,  his  hat  in  his  hand.  "I  thought  I  would  come 
over  to  say  good-bye." 

His  hungry  gaze  swept  over  the  figure  of  the  girl, 
shadowy  and  indistinct  in  the  semi-darkness.  To  his 
amazement,  he  saw  that  she  was  attired  in  the  frock 
she  had  worn  on  that  unforgettable  night  at  Striker's. 
She  leaned  forward  and  held  out  her  hand  to  him.  As 
he  took  it  he  looked  up  into  her  dusky  face  and  caught 
his  breath.  Good  heaven !  She  was  actually  smiling ! 
Smiling  when  he  was  going  away  perhaps  never  to  re 
turn  alive! 

She  did  not  speak.  It  was  Rachel  Carter  who  said, 
quietly : 

"Thank  you  for  coming  over,  Kenneth.  We  would 
not  have  allowed  you  to  go,  however,  without  saying 
good-bye  and  wishing  you  well  on  this  hazardous 
undertaking.  May  God  protect  you  and  all  the  brave 
men  who  go  out  with  you." 

He  had  not  released  Viola's  hand.  Suddenly  her 
grip  tightened;  her  other  hand  was  raised  quickly  to 
her  face,  and  he  was  dumbfounded  to  see  that  she  was 
dabbing  at  her  eyes  with  her  handkerchief.  His  heart 
swelled.  She  had  been  smiling  bravely  all  the  while  her 


358  VIOLA    GWYN 

eyes  were  filled  with  tears.  And  now  he  knew  why  she 
was  silent.  He  lifted  her  hand  to  his  lips. 

"I  want  you  to  know,  Viola  dear,  before  I  go  away," 
he  said  huskily,  "that  I  can  and  will  give  you  back 
the  name  of  Gwynne,  and  with  my  name  I  give  more 
love  than  ever  any  man  had  for  woman  before  in  all 
this  world.  I  lay  my  heart  at  your  feet.  It  is  yours 
whether  you  choose  to  pick  it  up  or  not." 

She  slowly  withdrew  her  hand.  Neither  of  them 
heard  the  long,  deep  sigh  in  the  darkness  beside  them. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  you,  Kenny,"  she  mur 
mured,  almost  inaudibly. 

"There  is  nothing  for  you  to  say,  Viola,  unless  you 
love  me.  I  am  sorry  if  I  have  distressed  you.  I  only 
wanted  you  to  know  before  I  go  away  that  I  love  you." 

"I — I  am  glad  you  love  me,  Kenny.  It  makes  me 
very  happy.  But  it  is  all  so  strange,  so  unreal.  I 
can't  seem  to  convince  myself  that  it  is  right  for  you 
to  love  me  or  for  me  to  love  you.  Some  day,  perhaps, 
it  will  all  straighten  itself  out  in  my  mind  and  then  I 
will  know  whether  it  is  love, — the  kind  of  love  you 
want, — or  just  a  dear,  sweet  affection  that  I  feel  for 
you." 

"I  understand,"  he  said  gravely.  "It  is  too  soon  for 
you  to  know.  A  brother  turned  into  a  lover,  as  if  by 
magic,  and  you  are  bewildered.  I  can  only  pray  that 
the  time  will  come  when  your  heart  tells  you  that  you 
love  me  as  I  want  you  to,  and  as  I  love  you." 

They  spoke  thus  freely  before  the  girl's  mother,  for 
those  were  the  days  when  a  man's  courting  was  not 
done  surreptitiously.  It  is  doubtful,  however,  if  they 
remembered  her  presence. 

"There  have  been  times — "  she  began,  a  trace  of 
eagerness  in  her  voice,  "when  something  seemed  to  tell 


THE    TRYSTING    PLACE         359 

me  that — that  I  ought  to  keep  away  from  you.  I  used 
to  have  the  queerest  sensations  running  all  over — " 
She  did  not  complete  the  sentence;  instead,  as  if  in  a 
sudden  panic  over  the  nearness  of  unmaidenly  revela 
tions,  she  somewhat  breathlessly  began  all  over  again: 
"I  guess  it  must  have  been  a — a  warning,  or  some 
thing." 

"They  say  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  magnetic  cur 
rent  between  human  beings,"  he  said.  "It  was  that, 
Viola.  You  felt  my  love  laying  hold  upon  you,  touch 
ing  you,  caressing  you." 

"The  other  night,  when  you  held  me  so  close  to  you, 
I — I  couldn't  think  of  you  as  my  brother." 

Out  of  the  darkness  spoke  Rachel  Carter. 

"You  love  each  other,"  she  said.  "There  is  no  use 
trying  to  explain  or  account  for  your  feelings.  The 
day  you  came  here,  Kenneth  Gwynne,  I  saw  the  hand 
writing  on  the  wall.  I  knew  that  this  would  happen. 
It  was  as  certain  as  the  rising  of  the  sun.  It  would 
have  been  as  useless  for  me  to  attempt  to  stop  the 
rising  sun  as  to  try  to  keep  you  two  from  falling  in 
love  with  each  other.  It  was  so  written  long  ago.'* 

"But,  mother,  I  am  not  sure, — how  can  you  say 
that  I  am  in  love  with  him  when  I  don't  know  it  my 
self?"  cried  Viola. 

"When  you  came,  Kenneth,  I  knew  that  my  days 
were  numbered,"  went  on  the  older  woman,  leaning  for' 
ward  in  her  chair.  "The  truth  would  have  to  come 
out.  A  force  I  could  not  stand  up  against  had  en 
tered  the  field.  For  want  of  a  better  word  we  will  call 
it  Fate.  It  is  useless  to  fight  against  Fate.  If  I  had 
never  told  you  two  the  truth  about  yourselves,  you 
would  have  found  it  out  anyway.  You  would  have 
found  it  out  in  the  touch  of  your  hands,  in  the  leap  of 


360  VIOLA    GWYN 

the  blood,  in  the  strange,  mysterious  desire  of  the 
flesh  over  which  the  soul  has  no  control.  You  began 
loving  him,  Viola, — without  knowing  it, — that  night  at 
Phineas  Striker's.  You — " 

"How  can  you  say  such  a  thing,  mother?"  cried 
Viola  hotly.  "I  was  in  love  with  Barry  Lapelle  at 
that—" 

"You  were  never  in  love  with  Barry,"  broke  in  her 
mother  calmly. 

"I  think  I  ought  to  know  when  I  am  in  love  and  when 
I  am  not!" 

"Be  that  as  it  may,  you  now  know  that  you  were 
never  in  love  with  him, — so  it  comes  to  the  same 
thing." 

Kenneth's  heart  gave  a  joyous  bound.  "I — I  wish 
I  could  believe  that.  I  wish  I  knew  that  you  are  not 
thinking  of  him  now,  Viola,  and  wanting  him  back  in 
spite  of  all  he  has  done." 

Viola  arose  suddenly.  "I  am  going  in  the  house," 
she  said  haughtily.  ''Neither  of  you  seems  to  think  I 
have  a  grain  of  sense.  First  mother  says  I  am  in  love 
with  you  without  knowing  it,  and  now  you  are  wonder 
ing  if  I  am  in  love  with  Barry  without  knowing  it,  I 
suppose.  Don't  you  give  me  credit  for  having  a  mind 
of  my  own?  And,  mother,  I've  just  got  to  say  it,  even 
if  it  is  insolent, — I  will  be  very  much  obliged  to  you 
if  you  will  allow  me  to  make  up  my  own  mind  about 
Kenny.  It  is  not  for  you  or  anybody  else  to  say  I  am 
in  love  with  him." 

"Oh,  don't  go  away  angry,  Viola,"  cried  Kenneth, 
distressed.  "Let's  forget  all  we've  said  and — " 

"I  don't  want  to  forget  all  we've  said,"  she  ex 
claimed,  stamping  her  foot.  "How  dare  you  come 
over  here  and  tell  me  you  love  me  and  then  ask  me  to 


THE    TRYSTING    PLACE         361 

forget —  Oh,  if  that's  all  it  amounts  to  with  you, 
Kenneth,  I  dare  say  I  can  make  up  my  mind  right  now. 
I—" 

"You  will  find,  Kenneth,"  broke  in  her  mother  drily, 
"that  she  has  a  temper." 

"I  guess  he  has  found  that  out  before  this,"  said 
Viola,  from  the  doorstep.  "He  has  had  a  taste  of  it.  If 
he  doesn't  like — " 

"I  am  used  to  tempers,"  said  he,  now  lightly.  "I 
have  a  devil  of  a  temper  myself." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  she  cried.  "You've  got  the 
kindest,  sweetest,  gentlest  nature  I've  ever — " 

"Come  and  sit  down,  Viola,"  interrupted  her  mother, 
arising.  "I  am  going  in  the  house  myself." 

"You  needn't,  mother.  I  am  going  to  bed.  Good 
night,  Kenny." 

"I  came  to  say  good-bye,"  he  reminded  her. 

She  paused  with  her  hand  on  the  latch.  He  heard 
the  little  catch  in  her  breath.  Then  she  turned  im 
pulsively  and  came  back  to  him.  He  was  still  stand 
ing  on  the  ground,  several  feet  below  her. 

"What  a  beast  I  am,  Kenny,"  she  murmured  con 
tritely.  "I  waited  out  here  all  evening  for  you  to  come 
over  so  that  I  could  say  good-bye  and  tell  you  how 
much  I  shall  miss  you, — and  to  wish  you  a  speedy  and 
safe  return.  And  you  paid  me  a  great  compliment, — 
the  greatest  a  girl  can  have.  I  don't  deserve  it.  But 
I  will  miss  you,  Kenny, — I  will  miss  you  terribly. 
Now,  I  must  go  in.  If  I  stay  another  second  longer 
I'll  say  something  mean  and  spiteful, — because  I  am 
mean  and  spiteful,  and  no  one  knows  it  better  than  I 
do.  Good-bye,  Kenneth  Gwynne." 

"Good-bye,  Minda  Carter,"  he  said  softly,  and  again 
raised  her  hand  to  his  lips.  "My  little  Minda  grown 


362  VIOLA    GWYN 

up  to  be  the  most  beautiful  queen  in  all  the  world." 

She  turned  and  fled  swiftly  into  the  house.  They 
heard  her  go  racing  up  the  stairs, — then  a  door  open 
and  slam  shut  again. 

"She  would  be  very  happy  to-night,  Kenneth,  if  it 
were  not  for  one  thing,"  said  Rachel.  "I  still  stand  in 
the  way.  She  cannot  give  herself  to  you  except  at  a 
cost  to  me.  There  can  be  nothing  between  you  until  I 
stand  before  the  world  and  say  there  is  no  reason  why 
you  should  not  be  married  to  each  other.  Do  you 
wonder  that  she  does  not  know  her  own  heart?" 

"And  I  would  not  deserve  her  love  and  trust  if  I 
were  to  ask  you  to  pay  that  price,  Rachel  Carter,"  said 
he  steadily. 

"Good-bye,  Kenneth,"  she  said,  after  a  moment.  She 
held  out  her  hand.  "Will  you  take  my  hand, — just  this 
once,  boy?" 

He  did  not  hesitate.  He  grasped  the  hard,  toil-worn 
hand  firmly  in  his. 

"We  can  never  be  friends,  Rachel  Carter, — but,  as 
God  is  my  witness,  I  am  no  longer  your  enemy,"  he 
said,  with  feeling.  "Good-bye." 

He  was  half-way  down  to  the  gate  when  she  called 
to  him: 

"Wait,  Kenneth.    Moll  has  something  for  you." 

He  turned  back  and  met  Moll  Hawk  as  she  came 
swiftly  toward  him. 

"Here's  somethin'  fer  you  to  carry  in  your  pocket, 
Mr.  Gwynne,"  said  the  girl  in  her  hoarse,  low-pitched 
voice.  "No  harm  c'n  ever  come  to  you  as  long  as  you 
got  this  with  you, — in  your  pocket  er  anywheres.  Hit's 
a  charm  an  old  Injin  chief  give  my  Pap  when  he  wuz 
with  the  tribe,  long  before  I  wuz  born.  Pap  lost  it  the 
day  before  he  wuz  tooken  up  by  the  sheriff,  er  else  he 


THE    TRYSTING    PLACE         363 

never  would  ha'  had  setch  bad  luck.  I  found  it  day 
before  yesterday  when  I  wuz  down  to  the  cabin,  seein' 
about  movin'  our  hogs  an'  chickens  an'  bosses  over  to 
Mis'  Gwyn's  barn.  The  only  reason  the  Injun  give 
it  to  Pap  wuz  beca'se  he  wuz  over  a  hundred  years  old 
an'  didn't  want  to  warn  off  death  no  longer.  Hit's 
just  a  little  round  stone  with  somethin'  fer  all  the 
world  like  eyes  an*  nose  an'  mouth  on  one  side  of  it, — 
jest  as  if  hit  had  been  carved  out,  only  hit  wuzn't. 
Hit's  jest  natural.  Hit  keeps  off  sickness  an'  death  an' 
bad  luck,  Mr.  Gwynne.  Pap  knowed  he  wuz  goin'  to 
ketch  the  devil  the  minute  he  found  out  he  lost  it.  I 
tole  Miss  Violy  I  wanted  fer  you  to  have  it  with  you 
while  you  wuz  off  fightin'  the  Injuns,  an'  she  said  she'd 
love  me  to  her  dyin'  day  if  I  would  give  you  the  loan 
of  it.  Mebby  you  don't  believe  in  charms  an'  signs  an* 
all  setch,  but  it  can't  hurt  you  to  carry  it  an' — an'  hit's 
best  to  be  on  the  safe  side.  Please  keep  it,  Mr. 
Gwynne." 

It  was  a  round  object  no  bigger  than  a  hickory  nut.- 
He  had  taken  it  from  her  and  was  running  his  thumb 
over  its  surface  while  she  was  speaking.  He  could 
feel  the  tiny  nose  and  the  little  indentations  that  pro 
duced  the  effect  of  eyes. 

"Thank  you,  Moll,"  he  said,  sincerely  touched.  "It's 
mighty  good  of  you.  I  will  bring  it  back  to  you,  never 
fear,  and  I  hope  that  after  it  has  served  me  faithfully 
for  a  little  while  it  may  do  the  same  for  you  till  you, 
too,  have  seen  a  hundred  and  don't  want  to  live  any 
longer.  What  was  it  Miss  Viola  said  to  you  ?" 

"I  guess  I  hadn't  ought  to  said  that,"  she  mumbled. 
"Anyhow,  I  ain't  goin'  to  say  it  over  again.  Good-bye, 
Mr.  Gwynne, — and  take  good  keer  o'  yourself." 

With  that  she  hurried  back  to  the  house,  and  he, 


364  VIOLA    GWYN 

after  a  glance  up  at  the  second  story  window  which  he 
knew  to  be  Viola's,  bent  his  steps  homeward. 

His  saddle-bags  were  already  packed,  his  pistols 
cleaned  and  oiled;  the  long-barrelled  rifle  he  had  bor 
rowed  from  the  tavern  keeper  was  in  prime  order  for 
the  expedition.  Zachariah  had  gotten  out  his  oldest 
clothes,  his  thick  riding  boots,  a  linsey  shirt  and  the 
rough  but  serviceable  buckskin  cap  that  old  Mr.  Price 
had  hobbled  over  to  the  office  to  give  him  after  the 
first  day  of  drill  with  the  sententious  remark  that  a 
"plug  hat  was  a  perty  thing  to  perade  around  in  but 
it  wasn't  a  very  handy  sort  of  a  hat  to  be  buried  in." 

His  lamp  burned  far  into  the  night.  He  tried  to 
read  but  his  thoughts  would  not  stay  fixed  on  the 
printed  page.  Not  once  but  many  times  he  took  up 
from  the  table  a  short,  legal-looking  document  and  re 
read  its  contents,  which  were  entirely  in  his  own 
cramped,  scholastic  hand  save  for  the  names  of  two 
witnesses  at  the  end.  It  was  his  last  will  and  testa 
ment,  drawn  up  that  very  day.  Minda  Carter  was 
named  therein  as  his  sole  legatee, — "Minda  Carter,  at 
present  known  as  Viola  Gwyn,  the  daughter  of  Owen 
and  Rachel  Carter."  His  father  had,  to  all  intents  and 
purposes,  cut  her  off  without  a  penny,  an  injustice 
which  would  be  righted  in  case  of  his  own  death. 

It  was  near  midnight  when  he  blew  out  the  light  and 
threw  himself  fully  dressed  upon  the  bed.  Sleep  would 
not  come.  At  last,  in  desperation,  he  got  up  and  stole 
guiltily,  self-consciously  out  into  the  yard,  treading 
softly  lest  he  should  wake  the  vehement  Zachariah  in 
his  cubbyhole  off  the  kitchen.  Presently  he  was  stand 
ing  at  the  fence  separating  the  two  yards,  his  elbows 
on  the  top  rail,  his  gloomy,  lovelorn  gaze  fixed  upon 
Viola's  darkened  window. 


THE    TRYSTING    PLACE         365 

The  stars  were  shining.  A  cool,  murky  mantle  lay 
over  the  land.  He  did  not  know  how  long  he  had  been 
standing  there  when  his  ear  caught  the  sound  of  a 
gently-closing  door.  A  moment  later  a  dim,  shadowy 
figure  appeared  at  the  corner  of  the  house,  stood  mo 
tionless  for  a  few  seconds,  and  then  came  directly 
toward  him.  The  blood  rushed  thunderously  to  his 
head.  He  could  not  believe  his  senses.  He  had  been 
wishing — aye,  vainly  wishing  that  by  some  marvellous 
enchantment  she  could  be  transported  through  the 
dark  little  window  into  his  arms.  He  rubbed  his  e3res. 

"Viola !"  he  whispered. 

"Oh,  Kenny,'*  she  faltered,  and  her  voice  was  low 
and  soft  like  the  sighing  of  the  wind.  "I — I  am  so 
ashamed.  What  will  you  think  of  me  for  coming  out 
here  like  this?" 

The  god  of  Love  gave  him  wings.  He  was  over  the 
fence,  she  was  in  his  arms,  and  he  was  straining  the 
warm,  pliant  body  close  to  his  bursting  breast.  His 
lips  were  on  hers.  He  felt  her  stiffen  and  then  relax 
in  swift  surrender.  Her  heart,  stilled  at  first,  began 
to  beat  tumultuously  against  his  breast;  her  free  arm 
stole  about  his  neck  and  tightened  as  the  urge  of  a 
sweet,  overwhelming  passion  swept  over  her. 

At  last  she  released  herself  from  his  embrace  and 
stood  with  bowed  head,  her  hands  pressed  to  her 
eyes. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  do  it, — I  didn't  mean  to  do  this," 
she  was  murmuring. 

"You  love  me, — you  love  me,"  he  whispered,  his  voice 
trembling  with  joy.  He  drew  her  hands  down  from  her 
eyes  and  held  them  tight  in  his  own.  "Say  you  do, 
Viola, — speak  the  words." 

"It  must  be  love,"  she  sighed.     "What  else  could 


366  VIOLA    GWYN 

make  me  feel  as  I  do  now, — as  I  did  when  you  were 
holding  me, — and  kissing  me?  Oh, — oh, — yes,  I  do 
love  you,  Kenny.  I  know  it  now.  I  love  you  with  all 
my  soul."  She  was  in  his  arms  again.  "But,"  she 
panted  a  little  later,  "I  swear  I  didn't  know  it  when  I 
came  out  here,  Kenny, — I  swear  I  didn't." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  did,"  he  cried  triumphantly.  "You've 
known  it  all  the  time,  only  you  didn't  understand." 

"I  wonder,"  she  mused.  Then  quickly,  shyly :  "I  had 
no  idea  it  could  come  like  this, — that  it  would  be  like 
this.  I  feel  so  queer.  My  knees  are  all  trembly, — it's 
the  strangest  feeling.  Now  you  must  let  me  go,  Kenny. 
I  must  not  stay  out  here  with  you.  It  is  terribly  late. 
I—" 

"I  can't  let  you  go  in  yet,  dearest.  Come !  We  will 
sit  for  a  little  while  on  the  steps.  Don't  leave  me  yet, 
Viola.  It  is  all  so  wonderful,  so  unbelievable.  And  to 
think  I  was  looking  up  at  your  window  only  a  few 
minutes  ago,  wishing  that  you  would  fly  down  to  me. 
Good  heavens !  It  can't  be  a  dream,  can  it  ?  All  this 
is  real,  isn't  it?" 

She  laughed  softly.  "It  can't  be  a  dream  with  me, 
because  I  haven't  even  been  in  bed.  I've  been  sitting 
up  there  in  my  window  for  hours,  looking  over  at  your 
house.  When  your  light  went  out,  I  was  terribly 
lonely.  Yes,  and  I  was  a  little  put  out  with  you  for 
going  to  bed.  Then  I  saw  you  come  and  lean  on 
the  fence.  I  knew  you  were  looking  up  at  my  window, 
— and  I  was  sure  that  you  could  see  me  in  spite  of  the 
darkness.  You  never  moved, — just  stood  there  with 
your  elbows  on  the  fence,  staring  up  at  me.  It  made  me 
very  uncomfortable,  because  I  was  in  my  nightgown. 
So  I  made  up  my  mind  to  get  into  bed  and  pull  the 
coverlet  up  over  my  head.  But  I  didn't  do  it.  I  put 


THE    TRY  STING    PLACE          367 

on  my  dress, — everything, — shoes  and  stockings  and 
all, — and  then  I  went  back  to  see  if  you  were  still 
there.  There  you  were.  You  hadn't  moved.  So  I  sat 
down  again  and  watched  you.  After  awhile  I — I — well, 
I  just  couldn't  help  creeping  downstairs  and  coming 
out  to — to  say  good-bye  to  you  again,  Kenny.  You 
looked  so  lonesome." 

"I  was  lonesome,"  he  said, — "terribly  lonesome.'' 

She  led  him  to  a  crudely  constructed  bench  at  the 
foot  of  a  towering  elm  whose  lower  branches  swept  the 
fore-corner  of  the  roof. 

"Let  us  sit  here,  Kenny  dear,"  she  said.  "It  is 
where  I  shall  come  and  sit  every  night  while  you  are 
gone  away.  I  shall  sit  with  my  back  against  it  and 
close  my  eyes  and  dream  that  you  are  beside  me  as  you 
are  now,  with  your  arms  around  me  and  your  cheek 
against  mine, — and  it  will  be  the  trysting  place  for 
our  thoughts." 

"That's  wonderful,  Viola,"  he  said,  impressed. 
"  'The  trysting  place  for  our  thoughts.'  Aye,  and  that 
it  shall  be.  Every  night,  no  matter  where  my  body 
may  be  or  what  peril  it  may  be  in,  I  shall  be  here 
beside  you  in  my  thoughts." 

She  rested  against  him,  in  the  crook  of  his  strong 
right  arm,  her  head  against  his  shoulder,  and  they 
both  fell  silent  and  pensive  under  the  spell  of  a  won 
drous  enchantment. 

After  a  while,  she  spoke,  and  there  was  a  note  of 
despair  in  her  voice: 

"What  is  to  become  of  us,  Kenny?  What  are  we 
to  do?" 

"No  power  on  earth  can  take  you  away  from  me 
now,  Minda,"  he  said. 

"Ah, — that's  it,"  she  said  miserably.     "You  call  me 


368  VIOLA    GWYN 

Minda, — and  still  you  wonder  why  I  ask  what  we  are 
to  do." 

"You  mean — about — " 

"We  can  be  nothing  more  to  each  other  than  we  are 
now.  There  is  some  one  else  we  must  think  of.  I — I 
forgot  her  for  a  little  while,  Kenny, — I  was  so  happy 
that  I  forgot  her.'* 

"Were  ever  two  souls  so  tried  as  ours,"  he  groaned, 
and  again  silence  fell  between  them. 

Kneeling  at  the  window  from  which  Viola  had  peered 
so  short  a  time  before,  looking  down  upon  the  figures 
under  the  tree,  was  Rachel  Carter.  She  could  hear 
their  low  voices,  and  her  ears,  made  sharp  by  pain, 
caught  the  rapturous  and  the  forlorn  passages  breathed 
upon  the  still  air. 

She  arose  stiffly  and  drew  back  into  the  darkness, 
out  of  the  dim,  starlit  path,  and  standing  there  with 
her  head  high,  her  arms  outspread,  she  made  her  solemn 
vow  of  self-renunciation. 

"I  have  no  right  to  stand  between  them  and  happi 
ness.  They  have  done  no  wrong.  They  do  not  de 
serve  to  be  punished.  My  mind  is  made  up.  To-mor 
row  I  shall  speak.  God  has  brought  them  together. 
It  is  not  for  me  to  keep  them  apart.  Aye,  to-morrow 
I  shall  speak." 

Then  Rachel  Carter,  at  peace  with  herself,  went  back 
to  her  bed  across  the  hall  and  was  soon  asleep,  a  smile 
upon  her  lips,  the  creases  wiped  from  between  her  eyes 
as  if  by  some  magic  soothing  hand. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE    ENDING 

A]  crack-o'-day  Kenneth  rode  out  of  his  stable- 
yard  on  Brandy  Boy,  and  went  cantering  away, 
followed  on  foot  by  the  excited  Zachariah, 
bound  for  the  parade  ground  where  the  "soldiers"  were 
to  concentrate. 

The  rider  turned  in  his  saddle  to  wave  farewell  to 
the  little  group  huddled  at  Rachel's  gate, — three  tall 
women  who  waved  back  to  him.  Rounding  the  bend, 
he  sent  a  swift  glance  over  his  shoulder.  There  was 
but  one  figure  at  the  gate  now ;  she  blew  a  kiss  to  him. 

Nearly  three  hundred  horsemen  moved  out  of  La 
fayette  that  forenoon  amidst  the  greatest  excitement 
and  enthusiasm.  Most  of  them  swam  their  horses 
across  the  river,  too  eager  to  wait  for  the  snail-like 
ferry  to  transport  them  to  the  opposite  bank.  They 
were  fearfully  and  wonderfully  armed  and  equipped 
for  the  expedition.  Guns  of  all  descriptions  and  ages ; 
pistols,  axes,  knives  and  diligently  scoured  swords ; 
pots  and  pans  and  kettles;  blankets,  knapsacks  and 
parcels  of  varying  sizes ;  in  all  a  strange  and  motley 
assortment  that  would  have  caused  a  troop  of  regulars 
to  die  of  laughter.  But  the  valiant  spirit  was  there. 
Even  the  provident  and  far-sighted  gentlemen  who 
strapped  cumbersome  and  in  some  cases  voluptuous 
umbrellas  (because  of  their  extraneous  contents)  across 
their  backs  alongside  the  guns,  were  no  more  timorous 

than  their  swashbuckling  neighbours  who  scorned  the 

369 


370  VIOLA    GWYN 

tempest  even  as  they  scoffed  at  the  bloodthirsty  red 
skins.  Four  heavily  laden  wagons  brought  up  the  rear. 

Kenneth  Gwynne  rode  beside  the  ubiquitous  "Judge" 
Billings,  who  cheerfully  and  persuasively  sought  to 
"swap"  horses  with  him  when  not  otherwise  employed 
in  discoursing  upon  the  vast  inefficiency  of  certain  spe 
cifically  named  officers  who  rode  in  all  their  plump 
glory  at  or  near  the  head  of  the  column.  He  was  par 
ticularly  out  of  sympathy  with  a  loud-mouthed  lieu 
tenant. 

"Why,"  said  he,  "if  the  captain  was  to  say  'halt' 
suddenly  that  feller'd  lose  his  mind  tryin'  to  think 
what  to  do.  No  more  head  on  him  than  a  grass 
hopper.  And  him  up  there  givin*  orders  to  a  lot  of 
bright  fellers  like  you  an'  me  an'  the  rest  of  us !  By 
gosh,  I'd  like  to  be  hidin*  around  where  I  could  see  the 
look  on  the  Indian's  face  that  scalps  him.  The  minute 
he  got  through  scrapin'  a  little  hide  an'  hair  off  of  the 
top  o'  that  feller's  head  he'd  be  able  to  see  clear  down 
to  the  back  of  his  Adam's  Apple." 

Historians  have  recorded  the  experiences  and 
achievements  of  this  gallant  troop  of  horse.  It  is  not 
the  intention  of  the  present  chronicler  to  digress.  Suf 
fice  to  say,  the  expedition  moved  sturdily  westward  and 
northward  for  five  or  six  days  without  encountering  a 
single  Indian.  Then  they  were  ordered  to  return  home. 
There  were  two  casualties.  One  man  was  accidentally 
shot  in  the  arm  while  cleaning  his  own  rifle,  and  an 
other  was  shot  in  the  foot  by  a  comrade  who  was  aiming 
at  a  rattlesnake.  Nine  or  ten  days  after  they  rode 
out  from  Lafayette*  the  majority  of  the  company  rode 
back  again  and  were  received  with  acclaim.  Two  score 
of  the  more  adventurous,  however,  separated  from  the 
main  body  on  Sugar  Creek  and,  electing  their  own  of 
ficers,  proceeded  to  Hickory  Creek  and  on  to  the  River 


THE    ENDING  371 

O'  Plain  in  Northern  Illinois,  without  finding  a  hostile 
redskin. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Black  Hawk  was  at  no  time 
near  the  Indiana  border.  His  operations  were  con 
fined  to  Northwestern  Illinois  in  the  region  of  the  Mis 
sissippi  River.  Subsequently  a  series  of  sanguinary 
battles  took  place  between  the  Indians  and  strong 
Illinois  militia  forces  supported  by  detachments  of 
United  States  troops  under  General  Brady.  It  was 
not  until  the  beginning  of  August  that  Black  Hawk 
was  finally  defeated,  his  dwindling  horde  almost  annihi 
lated,  and  the  old  chieftain,  betrayed  into  the  hands 
of  the  whites  by  the  Winnebagos,  was  made  a  prisoner 
of  war.  And  so,  summarily,  the  present  chronicler 
disposes  of  the  "great  Black  Hawk  war,"  and  returns 
to  his  narrative  and  the  people  related  thereto. 

Kenneth  Gwynne  did  not  go  back  to  Lafayette  with 
the  main  body  of  troops;  he  decided  to  join  Captain 
McGeorge  and  his  undaunted  little  band  of  adven 
turers.  Gwynne's  purpose  in  remaining  with  McGeorge 
was  twofold.  Not  only  was  he  keenly  eager  to  meet 
the  Indians  but  somewhere  back  in  his  mind  was  the 
struggling  hope  that,  given  time,  Rachel  Carter's  re 
serve  would  crack  under  the  fresh  strain  put  upon  it 
and  she  would  voluntarily,  openly  break  the  silence 
that  now  stood  as  an  absolutely  insurmountable  ob 
stacle  to  his  marriage  with  Viola.  Not  until  Rachel 
Carter  herself  cleared  the  path  could  they  find  the 
way  to  happiness. 

He  would  have  been  amazed,  even  shocked,  could 
he  have  known  all  that  transpired  in  Lafayette  on 
the  day  following  his  departure.  He  was  not  to  know 
for  many  a  day,  as  it  was  nearly  three  weeks  after 
the  return  of  the  main  body  of  troops  that  McGeorge 
and  his  little  band  rode  wearily  down  through  the 


372  VIOLA    GWYN 

Grand  Prairie  and  entered  the  town,  their  approach 
being  heralded  by  a  scout  sent  on  in  advance. 

Kenneth  searched  eagerly  among  the  crowd  on  the 
river  bank,  seeking  the  face  that  had  haunted  him 
throughout  all  the  irksome  days  and  nights ;  he  looked 
for  the  beloved  one  to  whom  his  thoughts  had  sped 
each  night  for  communion  at  the  foot  of  the  blessed 
elm.  She  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  He  was  bitterly 
disappointed.  As  soon  as  possible  he  escaped  from  his 
comrades  and  hurried  home.  There  he  learned  from 
Rachel  Carter  herself  that  Viola  had  gone  away,  never 
to  return  to  Lafayette  again. 

Mid-morning  on  the  day  after  the  troops  rode  away, 
Rachel  Carter  appeared  at  the  office  of  her  lawyer, 
Andrew  Holman.  There,  in  the  course  of  the  next 
hour,  she  calmly,  unreservedly  bared  the  whole  story 
of  her  life  to  the  astonished  and  incredulous  gentleman. 

She  did  not  consult  with  her  daughter  before  taking 
this  irrevocable  step.  She  put  it  beyond  her  daughter's 
power  to  shake  the  resolution  she  had  made  on  the  eve 
of  Kenneth's  departure ;  she  knew  that  Viola  would  cry 
out  against  the  sacrifice  and  she  was  sorely  afraid  of 
her  own  strength  in  the  presence  of  her  daughter's 
anguish.  "I  shall  put  it  all  in  the  paper,"  she  said, 
regarding  the  distressed,  perspiring  face  of  the  lawyer 
with  a  grim,  almost  taunting  smile,  as  if  she  actually 
relished  his  consternation.  "What  I  want  you  to  do, 
first  off,  Andrew,  is  to  prepare  some  sort  of  affidavit, 
setting  forth  the  facts,  which  I  will  sign  and  swear  to. 
It  needn't  be  a  long  document.  The  shorter  the  better, 
just  so  it  makes  everything  clear." 

"But,  my  dear  Mrs.  Gwyn,  this — this  may  dispossess 
you  of  everything,"  remonstrated  the  agitated  man 


THE    ENDING  373 

of  law.  "The  fact  that  you  were  never  the  wife  of 
Robert—" 

"Your  memory  needs  refreshing,"  she  interrupted. 
"If  you  will  consult  Robert  Gwyn's  will  you  will  dis 
cover  that  he  leaves  half  of  his  estate,  et  cetera,  to 
'my  beloved  and  faithful  companion  and  helpmate, 
Rachel,  who,  with  me,  has  assumed  the  name  of  Gwyn 
for  the  rest  of  her  life  in  view  of  certain  circumstances 
which  render  the  change  in  the  spelling  of  my  name 
advisable,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  in  signing 
this,  my  last  will  and  testament,  I  recognize  the  neces 
sity  of  affixing  my  true  and  legal  name.'  You  and  I 
know  the  sentence  by  heart,  Andrew.  No  one  can  or 
will  dispute  my  claim  to  the  property.  I  have  thought 
this  all  out,  you  may  be  sure, — just  as  he  thought  it 
all  out  when  he  drew  up  the  paper.  I  imagine  he 
must  have  spent  a  great  deal  of  time  and  thought  over 
that  sentence,  and  I  doubt  if  you  or  any  other  lawyer 
could  have  worded  it  better." 

"Of  course,  if  the  will  reads  as  you  say, — er, — ahem ! 
Yes,  yes, — I  remember  now  that  it  was  a — er — some 
what  ambiguous.  Ahem!  But  it  has  just  occurred 
to  me,  Mrs.  Gwyn,  that  you  are  going  a  little  farther 
than  is  really  necessary  in  the  matter.  May  I  suggest 
that  you  are  not — er — obliged  to  reveal  the  fact  that 
you  were  never  married  to  him?  That,  it  seems  to 
me,  is  quite  unnecessary.  If,  as  you  say,  your  object 
is  merely  to  set  matters  straight  so  that  your  daughter 
and  Mr.  Gwynne  may  be  free  to  marry,  being  in  no 
sense  related  either  by  blood  or  by  law, — such  as 
would  have  been  the  case  if  you  had  married  Kenneth's 
father, — why,  it  seems  to  me  you  can  avoid  a  great 
deal  of  unpleasant  notoriety  by — er — leaving  out  that 
particular  admission." 


374  VIOLA    GWYN 

"No,"  she  said  firmly.  "Thank  you  for  your  kind 
advice, — but,  if  you  will  reflect,  it  is  out  of  the  question. 
You  forget  what  you  have  just  said.  For  a  lawyer, 
my  dear  friend,  you  are  surprisingly  simple  to-day." 

"I  see, — I  see,"  mumbled  the  lawyer,  mopping  his 
brow.  "Of  course, — er, — you  are  quite  right.  You 
are  a  very  level-headed  woman.  Quite  so.  I  would 
have  thought  of  it  in  another  moment  or  two.  You 
can't  leave  out  that  part  of  it  without — er — nullifying 
the  whole  object  and  intent  of  your — er — ahem! — I 
was  about  to  say  confession,  but  that  is  a  nasty  word. 
In  other  words,  unless  you  acknowledge  that  you 
and  Robert  were  never  lawfully  married,  the — er — " 

"Exactly,"  she  broke  in  crisply.  "That  is  the  gist 
of  the  matter.  Society  does  not  countenance  marriage 
between  step-brother  and  -sister.  So  we  will  tell  the 
whole  truth, — or  nothing  at  all.  Besides,  Robert  Gwyn 
put  the  whole  story  in  writing  himself,  as  I  have  told 
you.  The  hiding-place  of  that  piece  of  paper  is  still 
a  mystery,  but  it  will  be  found  some  day.  I  am  trying 
to  take  the  curse  off  of  it,  Andrew." 

As  she  was  leaving  the  office,  he  said  to  her,  with 
deep  feeling:  "I  suppose  you  realize  the  consequences, 
Mrs.  Gwyn?  It  means  ostracism  for  you.  You  will  not 
have  a  friend  in  this  town, — not  a  person  who  will  speak 
to  you,  aside  from  the  storekeepers  who  value  your  cus 
tom  and" — he  bowed  deeply — "your  humble  servant." 

"I  fully  appreciate  what  it  means,"  she  responded 
wearily.  "It  means  that  if  I  continue  to  hold  my  head 
up  or  dare  to  look  my  neighbour  in  the  face  I  shall 
be  called  brazen  as  well  as  corrupt,"  she  went  on  after 
a  moment,  a  sardonic  little  twist  at  the  corner  of  her 
mouth.  "Well,  so  be  it.  I  have  thought  of  all  that. 
Have  no  fear  for  me,  my  friend.  I  have  never  been 


THE    ENDING  375 

afraid  of  the  dark, — so  why  should  I  fear  the  light?" 

"You're  a  mighty  fine  woman,  Rachel  Gwyn,"  cried 
the  lawyer  warmly. 

She  frowned  as  she  held  out  her  hand.  "None  of 
that,  if  you  please,"  she  remarked  tersely.  "Will  you 
have  the  paper  ready  for  me  to  sign  this  afternoon?" 

"I  will  submit  it  to  you  right  after  dinner." 

"You  may  expect  me  here  at  two  o'clock.  We  will 
then  step  over  to  the  Free  Press  and  allow  Mr.  Semans 
to  copy  the  document  for  his  paper."  She  allowed 
herself  a  faint  smile.  "I  daresay  he  can  make  room 
for  it,  even  if  he  has  to  subtract  a  little  from  his 
account  of  the  stirring  events  of  yesterday." 

"Your  story  will  make  a  great  sensation,"  declared 
the  lawyer,  wiping  his  brow  once  more.  "He  can't 
afford  to — er — to  leave  it  out." 

At  two  o'clock  she  was  in  his  office  again.  He  read 
the  carefully  prepared  document  to  her. 

"This  is  like  signing  your  own  death  warrant,  Rachel 
Gwyn,"  he  said  painfully,  as  she  affixed  her  signature 
and  held  up  her  hand  to  be  sworn. 

"No.  I  am  signing  a  pardon  for  two  guiltless 
people  who  are  suffering  for  the  sins  of  others." 

"That  reminds  me,"  he  began,  pursing  his  lips.  "I 
have  been  reflecting  during  your  absence.  Has  it  oc 
curred  to  you  that  this  act  of  yours  is  certain  to  react 
with  grave  consequences  upon  the  very  people  you 
would — er — befriend?  I  am  forced  to  remind  you 
that  the  finger  of  scorn  will  not  be  pointed  at  you 
alone.  Your  daughter  will  not  escape  the — er — igno 
miny  of  being — ahem ! — of  being  your  daughter,  in  fact. 
Young  Gwynne  will  find  his  position  here  very  greatly 
affected  by  the — er — ; 

"I  quite  understand  all  that,  Andrew.     I  am  not 


376  VIOLA    GWYN 

thinking  of  the  present  so  much  as  I  am  considering 
the  future.  The  past,  so  far  as  we  all  are  concerned, 
is  easily  disposed  of,  but  these  two  young  people  have 
a  long  life  ahead  of  them.  It  is  not  my  idea  that 
they  shall  spend  it  here  in  this  town, — or  even  in  this 
State." 

"You  mean  you  will  urge  them  to  leave  Lafayette 
forever?" 

"Certainly." 

"But  if  I  know  Viola, — and  I  think  I  do, — she  will 
refuse  to  desert  you.  As  for  Gwynne,  he  strikes  me  as 
a  fellow  who  would  not  turn  tail  under  fire." 

"In  any  case,  Andrew,  it  will  be  for  them  to  decide. 
Kenneth  had  already  established  himself  as  a  lawyer 
back  in  the  old  home  town.  I  shall  urge  him  to  return 
to  that  place  with  Viola  as  soon  as  they  are  married. 
His  mother  was  a  Blythe.  There  is  no  blot  upon  the 
name  of  Blythe.  My  daughter  was  born  there.  Her 
father  was  an  honest,  God-fearing,  highly  respected 
man.  His  name  and  his  memory  are  untarnished.  No 
man  can  say  aught  against  the  half  of  Kenneth  that 
is  Blythe,  nor  the  half  of  Viola  that  is  Carter.  I  should 
like  the  daughter  of  Owen  Carter  to  go  back  and 
live  among  his  people  as  the  wife  of  the  son  of 
Laura  Blythe,  and  to  honourably  bear  the  name  that 
was  denied  me  by  a  Gwynne." 

He  looked  at  her  shrewdly  for  a  moment  and  then, 
as  the  full  significance  of  her  plan  grew  upon  him, 
revealing  in  a  flash  the  motive  behind  it,  he  exclaimed : 

"Well,  by  gosh,  you  certainly  have  done  an  almighty 
lot  of  calculating." 

"And  why  shouldn't  I?  She  is  my  child.  Is  it  likely 
that  I  would  give  myself  the  worst  of  everything  with 
out  seeing  to  it  that  she  gets  the  best  of  everything? 


THE    ENDING  377 

No,  my  friend ;  you  must  not  underrate  my  intelligence. 
I  will  speak  plainly  to  you, — but  in  confidence.  This 
is  between  you  and  me.  There  is  no  love  lost  between 
Kenneth  Gwynne  and  me.  He  hates  me  and  always  will, 
no  matter  how  hard  he  may  try  to  overcome  it.  In 
a  different  way  I  hate  him.  We  must  not  be  where 
we  can  see  each  other.  I  am  sorely  afraid  that  the 
tender  love  he  now  has  for  Viola  would  fail  to  outlast 
the  hatred  he  feels  toward  me.  I  leave  you  to  imagine 
what  that  would  mean  to  her.  He  has  it  in  his  power 
to  give  her  a  place  among  his  people.  He  can  force 
them  to  honour  and  respect  her,  and  her  children  will 
be  their  children.  Do  you  see?  Need  I  say  more?" 

"You  need  say  nothing  more.  I  understand  what 
you  want,  Mrs.  Gwyn, — and  I  must  say  that  you  are 
in  a  sense  justified.  What  is  to  become  of  young 
Gwynne's  property  here  in  this  county?'* 

"I  think  I  can  be  trusted  to  look  after  it  satisfac 
torily,"  she  said  quietly;  "perhaps  even  better  than 
he  could  do  for  himself.  I  am  a  farm  woman." 

"I  thought  maybe  you  had  some  notion  of  buying 
him  out." 

"He  would  not  sell  to  me.  His  farm  is  being  prop 
erly  handled  by  the  present  tenant.  His  lots  here  in 
town  cannot  run  away.  The  time  will  come  when  they 
will  be  very  valuable,  or  I  am  no  prophetess.  There 
is  nothing  to  keep  him  here,  Andrew,  and  his  interests 
and  my  daughter's  will  be  as  carefully  looked  after  as 
my  own." 

"We  will  be  sorry  to  lose  him  as  a  citizen." 

"If  you  are  ready,  we  will  step  over  to  the  Free 
Press  office,"  she  said,  without  a  sign  that  she  had 
heard  his  remark. 

They  crossed  the  square  and  turned   up  the  first 


378  VIOLA    GWYN 

street  to  the  left.  "This  will  be  a  terrible  shock  to  your 
daughter,"  said  he,  breaking  a  long  silence. 

"She  will  survive  it,"  replied  Rachel  Gwyn  senten- 
tiously. 

He  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm.  "Will  you  accept  a 
bit  of  advice  from  me?" 

They  stopped.  "I  am  not  above  listening  to  it," 
she  replied. 

"My  advice  is  to  postpone  this  action  until  you 
are  sure  of  one  thing." 

"And  what  may  that  be?" 

"Kenneth  Gwynne's  safe  return  from  this  foray 
against  the  Indians.  He  may  not  come  back  alive." 

"He  will  come  back  alive,"  said  she,  in  a  cool,  matter- 
of-fact  tone.  "It  is  so  ordained.  I  know.  Come,  we 
are  wasting  time.  I  have  much  to  do  between  now 
and  nightfall.  Bright  and  early  to-morrow  morning 
my  daughter  and  I  are  leaving  town." 

"Leaving  town?"  he  cried,  astonished. 

"I  am  taking  her  out  in  the  country, — to  the  farm. 
If  I  can  prevent  it  she  shall  never  put  foot  in  this 
town  again.  You  know  Phineas  Striker?  An  honest, 
loyal  man,  with  a  wife  as  good  as  gold.  When  Ken 
neth  Gwynne  marches  back  to  town  again  he  will  find 
me  here  to  greet  him.  I  till  tell  him  where  to  find  Viola. 
Out  at  Striker's  farm,  my  friend,  she  will  be  waiting 
for  him  to  come  and  claim  his  own." 

A  smile  he  did  not  understand  and  never  was  to 
understand  played  about  her  lips  as  she  continued 
drily,  for  such  was  the  manner  of  this  amazing  woman : 

"He  will  even  find  that  her  wedding  gown  is  quite 
as  much  to  his  fancy  as  it  was  the  day  he  met  her.'* 

THE    END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


SEP  2  9  1975 


U  LU-UBi 


Form  L9-Series  4939 


PS 

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